Clockwork Green's blog: "The Poems..."

Oh what prodigious mowing they did make. He with his scythe -- she with her rake. A prayer for his very shy soul’s sake That he can escape sensibility’s cruel mistake. Bound to her sensual charms quaint. A whore we but say as he retorts “She ain’t!” How dare we criticize his sweet, loving saint? Clad in her shimmering gold spray paint. He cannot understand why they bid her ill For it is she that gives his heart a thrill So strong not even Death can ever still! Yet, we see his heart that her love will kill. I wish I could save thee, Oh my brother, For that whore’s heart always seeks another.