Last Bastion Poem by Pierre Rausch

Samson, flee, the grinding melon collie
The last bastion agreed, a bit of freedom, a bit of green
He lost his faith in the site of spleen; a prophecy in the last bastion, dark shall
be the candle-session
A massacre among others, the Waterloo of the mystic brothers
Evil swims for the spit in the sea, it's an ear-splitting mystery
Something you can't explain in a poem, it takes time and patience to hear the
songs of Loe
To differ the meaning of proportion,
To divide evil from good, the dollars, the yen, I can't promise this works out,
I'm just a sleazy lover, an opened mouth. Once the last bastion agreed, to give
birth to tender seed
That tares a bit out a tender sheet
I'm an awful poet, a second class knight, it's you that shall divide what's
wrong from what is right
They blew me dirt into the eyes, my lids in dust could never cry
It’s you that has to fulfill that duty
To fill your lips with(out) beauty
That was too quick, let's switch to slow motion
Evil left; know that's just spit in the ocean
It cooked the fingers of Joan Sebastian Bach
The last Bastion right there agreed, that it shall be your love that shall be
freed
A guitar, a contra bass and Harmon
A Pianola and a drum
The last bastion, the last bastion, dark shall be the candle-session