A MAN MADE A MAD MASTER
It’s on it’s way headed directly this way
Actually it should have arrived yesterday
I can sense the aromatic aroma of aristocracy
And the smell of smugness which demands its arrival
With all the senselessness of salacious survival
It has no pungent nor odorous taste other than sour
And from a plush pulpit does it demand undiluted power

Whenever it shows up I am helpless against such a stern and tightly clenched fist
As I am held hostage in a mill and I am its grist
It doesn’t ask for a task to be done with a grin but rather clutches a riding crop
As I do its bidding sweat drop to tear drop
It arrives often and usually at night
When the marauding moon crosses the threshold of the sun
It bears no weapons for war upon
And all there is for us is to wait until its gone
As I fear too greatly to take up and readily run
But quiver in a corner fearing for everyone
Yet it sneaks in and declares its supremacy supreme
as i advise all whom i see that we are all going to scream
For it knows the secret that they need no weapons to kill
And as I said, all I am is more grist for the mill
In the middle of a cloud and sleeping on a dream
Scream!
That’s all I can do
And submit and be subservient to the sinfulness akin to every born again sinner
While each and every time it is determined the winner
I……….slave to a maudlin and murdering master
Warn I today, for everyone, of disaster
That is all I have to say
And I swear now, at this crucial hour, wickedness is on its way
© 2011.….Phreepoetry ~free cee!~

It bears no weapons forward upon