In Poe’s creepy little corner
There lies the mask of anarchy;
A fuel of high octane magic is woven
Forms crystalline more potent than in a witch’s coven
Enter Legion’s tomb with the face of death
Lies a combatant’s gas mask with a mind altering adrenaline bequeath
Some leftovers from Pandora’s box
A high squeal of Baby Vox
A piquant blonde with a penchant for shoes,
A designer placebo for a Socratic muse.
Over to you Moonlight Lover
Who takes the L out of every Lover
And over for yet another.
O Shelley looks elegantly hardcore with cat o nine tails and a frock
And Byron masturbates over a soiled scene with Kirk and Mr Spock.
I cannot forsake the hidden truth
Life might change and pigs can fly,
Hope may vanish, but cannot die;
And Truth is just another sacred lie
In Time’s tempestuous dawn
A psychosomatic chip can fry!