Ballad of the Dove
Stirring, stirring, stirting,
the noise and words recurring,
for in that lava honey dew,
I see myself,
a, churning
Tis she, the lamb, the dove of mine
in which all richness doth take rhyme
but is that dove, I see so high,
even real,
when I greet "hi"?
No, No, I cannot be,
when I near,
it falls from it's tree,
and into pieces,
does it collapse,
smiling at me,
hinting relapse,
But No, No,
I say again,
that dove beckoning me as friend,
I shall not let you,
anymore,
cloud my judgement,
or leave a sore,
No, No, I remind myself,
this is it,
this is true wealth,
to know, know,
and seek the truth,
of who she is,
and who needs who
To Us Men To Make Much Of Game
Roaming, roaming, roaming,
my head, in fixed, is growing
and in my mind,
the play repeats,
of her and me,
unknowing,
O! What's in that mind of your's?
O! Sweet and secret,
honey noise,
that you, your thoughts,
your truth untold,
Might seep right through,
my open pours,
For then, it might be easier,
Wonder, if I'd be the weaker
if you, your thoughts, your truth untold,
would then, mostly make it cheaper,
Then No! I say,
to that notion,
to have me drink,
that magic potion,
where this game,
of silent love,
lies right before me,
open,
For then the game itself,
revealing,
would only serve to give,
one feeling,
crushing, crinkling, certainty,
that too fast,
would search
for ecstasy,
Where in that high
and powerful state,
to little,
do you know of your mate,
who, the game,
has rushed too fast,
will tell you soon,
you shall not last,
Therefore, my friend,
in these matters,
take inventory,
of this platter,
that this game
of chase and wonder
is itself
half the plunder
