Whittling a Tiger

darling let's party until the morn
start the next before the first one's done
we're nearly deaf from cracks of guns
blinded by the powder burns
all future battles we have forsworn
we're tired of all the dying sons
sick to our gut with uniforms
shall we pause the war and revel some?



let's play a game of confessionals
we'll be all starched and professional
like proper little penguins we'll be marching as if to sea
all dressed up to the nines, we'll forge onward diligently
it's off to church to fill our bills with all the sins we need



Oh agony, partner in life
your amber waves of pain....
four sleepless decades of delerium
please disconnect us at the brain.
if we could float above it all
a simple severed head
one hand to scratch out words in sand
would suffice until we're dead



Desert hoodoo trash-heaped slum
as if to be describing our very own home!
is strange, no, this poetic song?
how somehow we all have a connection
the zeitgeist or trends or popping a quiff
like Newton or Leibniz and the Calculus!
—AN: Cassondra Windwalker insp.



Don't mind us, we're just a fool
not fit company for a queen like you!
A scold's blood is all we have running through
these scarred-up veins and reknit bones
yet Sister Death is our dearest crone
and she will greet each queen and king
for everyone must kiss her ring
—AN: Natasha Link insp.