ON POETS
Poets are mad
To say
Things are not
What
They are
Is this why
They’re so sad?
THE DEVIL HAS WINGS
Remember, dear folks, if charmed bullets you fire
By Heaven, count seven, or kill your desire
For the Devil has wings,
And how sweetly he sings
Of damnation that springs
When our conscience turns liar
For fine fame
We should aim
A little higher
A PASSION FOR FASHION
My job is to inspire
The Angels of Desire
For this, indeed
I surely need
Appropriate attire
New Future Fantasy 