- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Dear Rita
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They claim to treat my mind,
Behind these dirty walls,
But I hear the bellowing of patients,
Being treated down the halls,
I look outside my window,
The town is gathering,
I hear the drum roll louder,
With the crowd,
As they raise that guillotine,
How many children won't be children anymore,
When it falls,
How much blood-thirst goes unquenched and still wants more,
When it falls,
Pass me my quill,
I need to tell a little tale,
Of a bonnie lass, a rugged man, and some stout imported ale,
The expression of their lust,
Might make you blush,
But to me it's the only way,
I can keep from losing touch with life,
So precious and so fragile,
I wonder could it be,
We are desensitized,
Every time,
They raise that guillotine.
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