A puppet of his thoughts possessed,
He rambles on, from his ego trapeze swinging,
The catcher, a muscled brute, his heart,
Precisions cold hands enfold and grasp,
Again and again he flies to accolades of lies,
Basking in his own glory, applause he hears,
No room for error in his mind,
A cruel hand his past defined,
Angels does he know,
Surrounded by devils of the past,
Forever he does brew,
This bitter poison stew,
Therein, along with all that cross his path,
Legged, winged, or finned,
No wonder he has gas©24/07/2010
LOL LOL LOL
Regis
Nice one, Jasmin!
John
GOD BLESS YOU
TONY