Poetic-Verses
SYNDROME
A Pharisee once made me laugh
Praying by a market
Doing what he couldnīt
Do in secret, openly
It is never enough
Whited sepulchres
Full of dry, dead, jangling bones
Lopping around in simple harmonic motion
A property of hell fire: Not a
Floating tree despised.
Praying by a market
Doing what he couldnīt
Do in secret, openly
It is never enough
Whited sepulchres
Full of dry, dead, jangling bones
Lopping around in simple harmonic motion
A property of hell fire: Not a
Floating tree despised.
Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
SYNDROME
SYNDROME
