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Cost of Being Friendly 

Handling hands and vocal voices.

Battle torn sands and social vices.

 

Sought server revels in seeking crescents,

Naught for fervor, but a bevel making presence.

The words of presents, the chord of intentions,

None will mention the sword in the trenches.

 

Dealing demands and fungal choices,

Cattle formed lands and rural roses,

 

Caught never in fever of envy to a pity,

Wrought to better sever energy from a city.

Lights fight short of might by course,

Tight sight aborts, rights feel hoarse.

 

Cradling strands of local poisons.

Rattle to stand should all be treason.

To be a little grander, I reserve my reasons.

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