Untitled #111013

untitled #111013

In the old thatched cottage,
In capable hands do teach.
Solemn tales are told in,
Mice ridden holes and crevices.
Seamstresses rid the earth of cotton for fathom tired men,
Who plot and decide upon their wicked games.

They play upon the mind,
Incapable they laugh and scorn,
In their cotton garbs,
The blood process of their tidings deceives the goodness
At the base level,
And in the old parched, thatched cottage,
Things just get
Swept up, even the crumbs from beneath the table.
And just empty ruins, empty
Vessels of ruinous parchment.

The base metals of the seamed garbs,
Are lent upon by the wars of this world,
Gobbled up consignments, hiding swords and swearing.
Wooden buildings can't stand up against those stable steels,
And the hooded and cloaked young ones
Stand proud.