Don't crack the monkey for he might awake.
With wide, crawling eyes he may see this game.
There are these oceans of holes in the sky,
it his doom, his dreaded, demonised demise.
There are the cracks on the walls of rocks,
who soldiered for eons upon as breaks for wolves.
Caricatured, captured and created crazy,
earnest in their undesired holy
the monkeys are in their own, messy, massacred arms tonight.
Don't whack the monkey for he might choke.
May give-in, to the thousand peels of strokes,
minute observations might surrender his heathing sighs.

He may never wake-up, from the glorious ecstasy he may find.
But the agony accompanies the golden moon
there over his dome, it rises like a bell
and within the turmoil in the distance,
as that vision of gore passes by his dear self
he encloses his mind, his arms
in the dear nectar of the ephemeral night
beneath the carpet of dreams perpetrated by sheer delight
and upon the bosom of a mother who is unholy tonight,
he shall rest for the end is nowhere near in sight.