Poetry

The poet’s quill as God’s thin spear

Prescribed to kill with words so dear

Presumptuous tip to pierce thy foes

Black ink is blood that slowly flows

On flesh of page in straight dark line

Deliver I, His will and mind!

 

Your epee long, so as thy tongue

Could be cut off if found wrong

The tongue is weak it’s just a meat

Remember throne is just a seat!

 

Courageous pen has got no fear

As well he got no brain not ear

Intrepid thoughts fly to and fro

Thou must refine and polish raw

As Cyprus waves bring Aphrodite

Thus poems come so fine and bright