The month of April once again arrives,
And begs from Language Conquerors a poem.
Before the month of Aphrodite dies,
We must example la vie de Bohème.
And so, we dust off iambs, rhymes, and verses,
Arranging till they satisfy the heart.
Again, again, again, thus be our curses--
To speak for love and loss, thus is our part
To play; to separate the soul, as sleuths
Separate the bloodshed and the clues.
We gentle soldiers verbalize the truth
Muddled hearts might hear for healing’s use.
For if I can't promote my soulful scrawl,
Then what’s the point of writing it at all?