Before the trail gets cold let’s rouse up the muse,
For his restless mind to be eased
All those things he wishes to say let him without inhibitions,
With his dirty shameless fingers, spoil the paper
Staining it with his highly opinionated musings,
Let him loose on the unsuspecting public.
They have had to gag and bag him and muffle his mumbles.
Putting a muzzle on him just so as to not offend.
Today though isn’t the day for sensibilities.
From that desert John Harris wrote,
Let the muse rise from the heat,
One of a stark heart,
Without remorse let him paint his emotions,
A pastel from honey yellow,
And all Goring’s mauves.
Let him sketch the forlorn eddies whose abrasion robbed his heart!
In the loneliest of nights let him rise before you lay any verdict,
Allow him a say, one of a lesser cause,
The muse from within,
Pillowed on the tomb of forbidden supposed insensibilities
Like Kenny from Southpark,
Muffled in a tight hood of reclusiveness
Flogged by the cold of a neighbourhood’s up-tightness
Afford him a canvas, let him pour his heart out,
And muse like Chills in Mith’s sonnet
Lest he may rest and gain room for a sigh
For censoring him has proved as murderous;
Uncontainable spirit, The Khan of all muses
The brumby untamed, on unbroken verges.
Before you may detest, know there’s always some reason
Now that he’s drawn a piranha
It’s too late to cuff him!
Fit him a straight jacket
in the name of maintaining the rectitude of the consortium.
Yet on his visage a grin is pasted like the grinch
just without the lingering guilt.
Knowing their efforts to hold his tongue are moribund
as his whip lash fast wrath has like a sickle cut all in its path.
Unto us he has from his sick mind left a small bequest,
for our eyes to feast and our hearts to stew,
A soup filled with extra helpings of the truth,
hidden in a more than healthy dose of profanity.
Audaciously daring to reprobate the fragmented facticity of his words.
As if looking straight into your soul,
He makes a mockery of all the details that solidifies being human.
Scraps of truth, the ingredient for his drool,
Sprung from potent cultures in the light of pending falsehoods,
Trojan horse; toys for his sempiternal generation’s degradation
For him straightjackets won’t fare,
Neither will rigor mortis,
Till kingdom come
He will divulge odes of fury,
he the macabre brutally ever factual dude.
Dare paint him pictures of our inconsequential truth,
Yet he has seen generations come and go,
knows the fickleness of our existence.
Still they dare coop him up, caging him for knowing the faces of Life and Death,
ex-lovers of his during the dark ages before Time took her seductress form
and emboldenedly strutted her curvy figure.
Now they want to ultimately seek to choke him on his words.
Still he seeks no retribution with that infuriating curl pasted on his lips.
Mith and cFAS