A poem.
O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
Miss Typist insists this could be about me.
I... don't like to think about it. *>_>*
The invisible worm
That flies in the night
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
Miss Typist insists this could be about me.
I... don't like to think about it. *>_>*