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September 6, 2014
That man of words;
heart ruled by head,
who she, he beckoned,
to his bed,
in heady times
of miss-spent youth.
In wilderness days
of outspoken truth.
That man of words
with needy passion,
who she dallied with
in outrageous fashion.
And who in urgency,
showed no shame;
a Degree had he
in the ‘mating ‘game.
That man of words
with spirit reeling;
strong memories still,
inhibit the healing.
Who in answer to
another cuckoo’s call,
once more did conquer,
though from grace did fall.
That man of words,
who from Byron quoted,
cast her aside
when to another, devoted.
But, in all honesty,
if truth be shared;
it was only ever for
himself, he cared.
That man of words,
who deemed himself a bard,
with a restless nature,
and who had scant regard,
for the debris left
as amour turned to ashes;
and who was later exiled,
and given fifty lashes.
That man of words;
a ‘one off’ or not?
Only time will tell,
for that rebellious swot.
But wise advice,
as daylight starts to fade;
best stay indoors,
or be afraid!
That man of words;
back on the prowl!
A tale or two, could tell,
that ever watchful owl,
who quietly sits,
absorbing all;
and the first to know,
who’s out on the crawl.
That man of words,
heard beyond the grave,
lives on amongst us
in menace, to misbehave.
And as the owl hoots,
to acknowledge his arrival,
heads are shook in wonder,
at his survival.
That man of words
oft found lying down,
now back in force
to regain his crown,
and moving nearer,
with his whispered curses;
lest we should forget
the heartache, he still nurses.
That man of words, who
through promiscuity reigned,
(capturing imagination;
an outlet, for those pained),
will not lay rested
as the owl knows so well;
for he too, gets ‘day release’,
from his own personal hell.
That man of words
who feathered his nest;
then gave back to the world,
it all, in his final bequest,
will not be acknowledged,
until the seedlings grow,
and future generations,
his work, all come to know.
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