Plague Mass Plagiarized
Grey-headed ghosts sigh not
Staticorpsescreamosterribly
in a dank death rattle
as they browse on cattle.
Theirs is the powder flask
they say burns a whole day,
theirs is the dying light
a dark and loveless night
filled with sex, not love,
hands choking a bottle of whisky,
murderously choking, dangerously frisky.
Damn the poetic way;
it breeds justice of the day.
This poem was written by Orpheus . on Jul 16, 2008.
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