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stylesclash
28/M/USA   
clash of clans
United States    You may not be perfect but you are perfect for me, and I’m grateful to call you mine.

Poems

The beating of his drum was something like the beating of his heart.
Poor boy lost his heart to girl who lost her cherry to a smoker
He gave her anything,
He wrote her songs and sang so many,
He smashed the drum sticks in to the metal.
Clash Clash
He missed her so bad.
Clash  Clash Clash
He needed her arms wrapped around him.
Clash Clash Clash Clash
He craved her lips pressed against his.
Clash Clash Clash Clash Clash
He ached for her to say his name one last time.
Clash Clash Clash Clash Clash Clash
He wanted her back.
Clash Clash Clash Clash Clash Clash CRACK
His heart beat stopped at the crack line that went start down his drum stick.
To our little drummer boy
LOQUITUR: En Bertans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer up of strife.
Eccovi!
Judge ye!
Have I dug him up again?
The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. “Papiols” is his jongleur.
“The Leopard,” the device of Richard Coeur de Lion.

I

**** it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come!  Let’s to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

II

In hot summer I have great rejoicing
When the tempests **** the earth’s foul peace,
And the lightning from black heav’n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God’s swords clash.

III

Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breat opposing!
Better one hour’s stour than a year’s peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there’s no wine like the blood’s crimson!

IV

And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His long might ‘gainst all darkness opposing.

V

The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth’s won and the swords clash
For the death of such ***** I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

VI

Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There’s no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle’s rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges ‘gainst “The Leopard’s” rush clash.
May ******* for ever all who cry “Peace!”

VII

And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought “Peace!”