No doubt your guns are way too loud,
but its your words that turn me inside out.
the sun doesn’t shine on him,
it has its own fuel to burn out.
he’d already said,long ago,
“like twinkling stars and sparling sand,
the warmth you show and words you throw.”
can’t look beyond thy hand.
words aid, your manifest,
more than the affections.
while you are at your playing best,
he would rather learn from reflections.
“I can sit and burn all night,
to give you the sweetest tan.”
it would neither be poetry, nor a prose,
but what all can understand.
words never respond to your playfulness,
yet,never fail to amuse.
they are weapons beneath their skimpy self,
now you must put your hands to use,
as you face this irony,
clap, clap to hide our bemuse.