+ 1 - 2 | § ¶Improv poetry
Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
When Elvis got high on the bit of an ember
That sat in his ashtray, just by his feet
While wallowing, wallowing, in his defeat.
He asked himself 'How did I get to this place?'
'Why am I so desperate? Why did I lose face?'
He had forgotten that which he had known -
He had at long last reaped what he had sown.
'Away, away demons! Please leave me be!'
'I simply want to once again be me.'
But all hope was lost and cannot be found.
Elvis was no more, his good faith had drowned.