Why I fear The Bars
Why mold the magic of the night, With hands of clay. With bland words, Covered with, A greasy smile. Russeling the sheet music, With well practised words. When the only sheets you think of, Are the silk ones on my bed. You call this style? If it was worth it, I'd try to show you, The magic I bring, Of heated velvet darkness, But you'd fell to understand. Your to busy, Admiring yourself, In ever mirror, At least one person here, Thinks your quite a man. Your big in business, Handmade suits, No less of course, A real lady's man, Or so you claim. Funny how the same face, By neon bar light, Takes on a jaded haze, As somewhere in darkness, Age makes haggered planes. Written January 14th, 2002 © on Jan 14 2002 12:46 PM PST, Phyllis Thompson 0 • 10
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"Why mold the magic of the night,..."