Vile Poem by Piccola Topo Gigio
Vile
Selfish, is your name.
Self serving, your game.
Cowardice, runs through your vein.
No honour, in that which you gain.
Despicable, what lives in your chest.
Deceit, what hides behind your past.
Worthless, is your word.
Fruitless, not forward.
Sunday, July 2, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: wickedness
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4/25/2024 6:55:07 AM # 1.0.0.1119
