Who is ListeniNG?
An island float:
In iron coat,
Commands the Mispec shore;
It fills a glut;
Amazing but,
Though troth be filled, they will have more¦
That heavy crude,
Burns black and rude,
And spills bequeath great chore;
But liquid gas,
Doth better pass,
Through safety spilled: its at our door¦
Equipment roars,
Like corporate whores,
Along the Stretch beside the shore;
For what's in store:
Was here before,
This roads been grilled,the bank is poor
Like Phantom ships,
The houses slip,
To greet the oceans frothy roar;
No time to pack,
Foundations cracked,
Yet on they build, with needs galore¦
And if she blows,
So Redhead goes,
In history books as fiery lore;
The landscape baked,
Cause heads to shake,
When all are killed 3 miles, and more¦
And for the rent,
They toss a cent,
To make our danger less a chore;
The bulls eye track,
Soon on our back,
The grist is milled, but are we sure?
Mark McGovern, June 4, 2005
