Lovely lying laurels lay listlessly in lemon lagoons,
lavish in their luster, a bluster though it is.
For however many men come walking down to sour shores,
hundreds more are stepped upon by those that come to gorge.
Ragged righteous rigid rods rip through rotted flesh,
to feast upon the hearts and souls housed in barren breasts.
Retching, reaching, restless screeching crawls out through the eyes,
leaving lofty thoughts for children laced in lacy lies.
Facades forged in futile fires fuel our fragile friendships,
corrosive characters covered by colorful collared coats.
Who saves the stuttering souls sinking in seductive sands?
Surely no good gods would give these gifts to gracious men or lands.
Holler now for hollow hope you haggard, hateful heathens!
Desperately ripping at the retreating rope around your necks.
Bound in shackles molded from olden generations of men's regrets.
Such awful anger of ancients' past compressed upon our souls.
For to patternistic populaces pride is a disease.
That nightmarish gnawing knowless nothing to which we are kin.
Is not the most beautiful thing our lives' assurance life must end?