02-07-2013, 03:43 AM
Her Majesty was quite sincere
that I should live with this veneer.
A simple man his work now done.
This cigarette is not a gun.
Oh, nothing shaken, nothing stirred
with prune juice words are never slurred.
At least I’m constant in my fun.
This cigarette is not a gun.
Pussy Galore, she is no more.
No sheets lay tangled on the floor.
From many conquests now to none,
this cigarette is not a gun.
My bed is empty and so cold.
How did I ever get this old?
Escaped all death traps save this one.
This cigarette is not a gun.
License to kill, I want to scream.
This is a nightmare not a dream.
I need a light, a blackened lung.
This cigarette is not a gun.
(I almost never write outside of free verse. This is one of the poems I did with Brandon in the chess thread, and I wanted to see if it held together)
that I should live with this veneer.
A simple man his work now done.
This cigarette is not a gun.
Oh, nothing shaken, nothing stirred
with prune juice words are never slurred.
At least I’m constant in my fun.
This cigarette is not a gun.
Pussy Galore, she is no more.
No sheets lay tangled on the floor.
From many conquests now to none,
this cigarette is not a gun.
My bed is empty and so cold.
How did I ever get this old?
Escaped all death traps save this one.
This cigarette is not a gun.
License to kill, I want to scream.
This is a nightmare not a dream.
I need a light, a blackened lung.
This cigarette is not a gun.
(I almost never write outside of free verse. This is one of the poems I did with Brandon in the chess thread, and I wanted to see if it held together)
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson