So you’re holding the floor with your
Audience in rapture.
A score’s breath held, anticipating more.
Your words set a springing trap
And those weak-willed are captured,
While those with opinions fall through the gaps,
Down which your derision pours.
The skill of weaving tales
Is not one that you’ve mastered,
Your train of poison derailed
As wheels separate from track,
Cruel words sparking, lies paving way for disaster,
As the cables took for granted snap
Under the strain of your self-pity wail.