Reaper, She.
Each sweet amend fails to a bitter lip
Derailed, the sound does rip
Through lifestyles, lifetimes, amore
Until the bitter end, the sweet once torn
The delicious distaste, the inevitable irony
Happens, in spite of the malicious tyranny
Freedom, a granted liberty though unknown
Forced the oppressed to grow, and grown
Oh! It is the falsification of night
That unleashes the fire of beautiful light
A fear of mere demeanor
And that: A fear of She, the reaper
Detaches the bud from which I was born
By the lisp of Her unrequited scorn.