POETRY TITLE: SCARS

Whatever makes the river ripple;
Must have chased the puddle ducks.
Whoever pulls the Lion’s mane,
Would embrace the devil’s luck.

For in the pretext of friendship;
The heart incessantly bleeds.
In the guise of sheer fondness,
The ugly stealthily ooze their vice.

For they knew I would forgive;
They pulled bows using the toe,
With whetstones, they scratched my back;
In the pretext of friendship.

They have unearthed my scalp;
In kindness, they bared my skull;
To the ceaseless smite of the sun;
In the pretext of friendship.

So I quit to keenly dine;
With flies which ferret my sore,
And had chose to part their paths;
That the river should ripple on.