ABC nonsense.

A lost, forgotten script of

beautiful and ghostlike

calligraphy lovingly, teasingly

displays the public mask made of

eccentric but calculated yet artistic

finesse; having it spin and turn,

going around and around in

havoc, like a wasp trapped

in a lyrical

juxtaposition. I laugh.

Kneel before me, you

little, naive

musician;

now having you trapped:

openly; gayly

playing a song made from a

queen's terrible

ransom. Trapped in a vice. But the lost soul

sweetly, sorrowfully singing, it is so

tormenting, like cold-hearted

ushers along a funeral pyre, now openly and

vainly loud, uncaring. It screams slurs,

wailing out a bizarre poem made of threads of

xenophobic yarn, that oozes and blorts out

zealously, like a rival's bitter, unswallowing hope.