The Virus

What is this yearning pain 

I carry under the lids, 

My eyes weary, teary, burning, 

Is there any other way

I could stay, the art of intelligence 

Is always free. 

giant saint

There was once a man, a giant saint;

He had no morals and was in a pithy state. 

His wife he hit, his children deplored, 

And to his worth he was always bored. 

His urchin mates he psychophanted, 

His bigger stake was annihilation. 

Today he is trapped with a grisly mate, 

No more saint, oh so faint!