loose-lipped, lingering lies,

the torrential triumphs,

from some weak, twisted up and slow to die,

bastard,

cinnamon and sugary cries,

those weak, "Man I'm sorry, dog I tried",

but from a man of perseverance,

just notching my pad,

my thoughts that steer,

never forgotten,

hidden in a place,

in the back of the mind,

almost forgotten,

until the time,

to reap what was sowed,

pure and rotten,

uprooting the scare-crows,

from my beautiful garden.