Basnicky.sk

Your eyes can speak a thousand ryhmes,
Spoke with not language or even mimes,
There holds a land that no-one knows,
And that land is filled with a single rose.

But when i looked deep into that land,
It crumbled into mere grains of sand,
For your rose is infested with prickerly thorns,
Each one has a stabbing feeling as sharp as horns.

Yet these ryhmes talk of nothing but your dirty sheet,
That you use to cover up your lies and deciet,
I offer you nothing no guarantee,
That anything could happen between you and me.

Nothing i know is more twisted then your mind,
So i suggest a puppet elsewhere you must go and find.