the thespian

And so the clouds unfold here

In this wintry November cloudburst

And the girl, misty to my strokes

Smiles gently during maple hours

To the red sands of my eccentricity

Who is sitting solely in a land called Arabia,

Unteachered by the convictions

Of a dramatist who called me

Her compatriot in a room where

Satan is a rosy little lesbian

And I am more than a fist fighter

More than a harlot to my own

Aptitudes, my own greed

Where is my thespian?

Where is my thespian?

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