ohw

See if you can decode the linguistic tricks I put into this one. I'd be very interested to see who gets any part of it! :)

Stop the hurt, bleeding Sir

Let me wane against you, your window-pane,

Your whole frame, I am lame, I am lame.

I am a killer of Sorry, a boatload Regret,

So much so the smugglers, seeing my riches,

Sniffing my wealth, captivate the trove

They are imprisoned for the hoard;

I froze it in dispensation for your clean,

White touch, and I receive it once more.

The police-men apologise for the Wait.

"Here you are Miss," they waffle, 

"Here is your Hoard. Have a good day, yea'?"

I wait on in the rain, panelled on the floor,

A victim of my own Rape, I wait for you to come to me.

Instead, the blue copper men. 

They apologise again. "Miss," they say.

"Miss." They hiss it like a swan.

The yellow gorge of it smells like an invitation. 

I kill the keel with the jaded joy I spare

For your Praise -- God, divine, you thieving swine,

But I see the might of Matter, a fatter Mass

Than You or I, that I do not R- Love You,

I do not O you. I do not taste the capitalist, I do not MMMMMM. 

I dance minus the D. I sink beneath the deceit, see if you can

                                                                                       Demand it.

Reprimand it, expand it (I am yours nonetheless)

Like a Pilgrim with God. Who? It hurts.