Автор Владимир Васильков | 1.5.07 02:08 (Хитов 2030)
The cold of forgery
My breath tells me its pain And its fear ‘f artificial smiles, It seems that my cry tries in vain To awake warmth among stony styles Of the behavior of a cynic play, Where dialogues shut down the heart, The mimic’s well-trained, and so you may Win the audience, and they’ll shout: “Smart!” I know how t’ introduce, and how t’ give farewells, And announce the show goes on, But why it so desperately smells Of spoilt meat of hearts, which life is gone. …They say: “You’ll reach your future up-grades, You’ll have a degree, you’ll open many doors.” But why I feel my breath it hates, And it’s much sweeter to wash the floors.
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