It's a funny thing,
it's a funny thing,
you and me, we ring
fourteen inches thin
from a heaven-laden sin
smoothing golden-slumbered skins
into many-headed stings of a jealous rage,
a scribbled page, a crumpled stage of all that lies within.
The mind rambles in sleep,
a fogged inner sheep wrapped in wolves' handsome fleece
born to ravage and beat
meaning win,
a conversion to spin
from a wife to a cheat
from a roar to a bleat.
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