The Demon Seed is growing now.
Shall I allow this evil breed?
Shall I intervene somehow?
Cut it out and watch it bleed?
A mother, blind, expects the best:
alone, undressed, she hopes to find
a comfort in her swollen breast,
a warm maternal peace of mind.
But still I know far more than she:
the family tree, its constant woe;
brothers are forced to oversee
their siblings, bellied, slowly grow.
So yet I ask myself again:
shall I allow such dangerous kin?
I often stall. Sometimes
I wonder about Lady Luck
and how the fortune which she wills
sometimes inspires, sometimes kills
the good first line stamped in my mind.
Sometimes through all the words I find
a way to push the music on
and play the tune until itís done;
yet other times I hit a wall
and cannot seem to write at all.
So Iím convinced that Fortune hands
each man her arbitrary plans
and doesnít give a cuss for those
who hope somewhere a talent grows
which feed their precious, unique art.
Yes, Iím convinced that I should start
to gamble in the streets for cash
instead of writing rhyming trash.