The best of bards is back
Holding a poetic pack
Returning from exile
Where for a scorpion while,
He buried pen in graves
And sang his songs in caves.
I,a buried,single seed
Repr'senting a silver bead,
Which undergoes a mould,
And was change into gold,
My pen,my seed,both died,
Jaded,my sweet-fans cried.
Forgetting life is death,
And death,a living breath,
A guitter cannot win,
Though quitting is not sin,
The best of bards is back,
Holding a poetic pack.
Come out to watch,to see,
His ink, as if a sea
Flows quietly a-towards,
The way to move forward,
His words is honeybomb,
His pen is out of tombs.
This pen,a real pipe-bomb,
Will bombs all darkened heart',
Which cause it to depart,
From evil and offence.
So,are you seeking truth?
Is life not walking smooth?
That you awaits to find
The doctor of the mind?
Are your days not nice?
Are your wages poor price'?
Do loved ones cheat on you'
Do your soul suffer boo?
Do you suffer a curse?
Just calm your nerve because,
The best of bar is back,
Holding a poetic pack.
