Mold, marauding madly,
Tempests built in time,
Bursting through the seams,
Breaking every rhyme,
But what moves in murder?
What brings the thought of this?
What derives the self
To move in maddened bliss?
But what bliss is this?
To derive other of the self?
My, what madness comes
Being placed upon the shelf.
But others will hold you,
They will pick up and play,
Then poised again in paisley,
You will be thrown away.