A sweet aroma does he stir,
In witches cauldron deep,
With words of learned hate and fear,
False tears his eyes do weep,
Hand in hand he dances round,
With crippled mind, and whispered word,
With witches willows is he bound,
Yet still he crosses sword,
Imbued with truth of halve there is,
This sissy puss of twelve degree,
That calls a dyke a miss,
That need sit down to pee,
Sweet his stirring intellect,
He dreams himself a giant gent,
But only ego I detect,
Slightly flawed and bent,
A rag tag team of dykes dressed sweet,
Like teamsters on a rampage strike,
He waves his placard on the street,
With words not suited for a mike,
Had he balls, like most men do,
Surely he would stand alone,
Whisper not with Dyke or Sue,
Of truth that’s carved in stone,
Now tell me Sir, what have you got,
Spit it out if you’re so certain,
Stop to stir your ego pot,
Or soon you might be hurtin,©16/06/2012
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