SENIOR ADVOCATE OF WORDS (SAW)
They shudder at the nibbing wonder,
the gods left him the field to plunder.
Then the heathen raged to rip asunder,
but these he will say in lieu of a murder:
My words only grew long legs,
walked from my hut of thought,
mined, molded, shaped and built
into a weapon to lynch without guilt.
My words are the sneezes of a scorpion,
the yawn of a lethal serpent in the dungeon,
And they are the message of John the Baptist,
telling of impending doom, victory as a catechist.
My words are toxic bombs shot in time,
they are fierce rockets thrown into space
to illumine like the sun in the day climes;
revealing darkness with light as daytime.
My words, the curse of the unjust,
they are gallows for other's hurts.
They soothe the heart of angels,
cuddle the innocence of girls.
For the umpteenth time,
my words are me dressed in ink.
My words are my muse grilled to pink.
My words are meats burnt on the board
for the faint nosed to pick in sniffs to heal!
© Ben James
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