Love's a splendid flower,
That leaves you with no power,
You can't think, or sleep,
Nor laugh, or weep.
The flower poisoins your soul,
And makes you a ghould,
Wondering around,
With the legs above the ground.
Her parfume you keep,
In your heart, somewhere deep,
Where no human has ever been,
In your big, complicated machine.
I hate to be sick,
I do love to sleep,
But when the flower arrives,
I start to realise,
That I'm very weak,
And my brain is a brick,
Stupid, and thick.
YOU ARE READING
Stejarul tăiat
PoetryMulţi afirmă că viaţa fără poezie ar fi un nimic monoton, lipsit de frumos şi expresivitate. Dar cum ar fi viaţa fără poeziile MELE? Probabil mai bună. Dar de ce să riscăm? Limba poeziilor va alterna între Engleză şi Română, nu pentru că mă dau mar...
