The Triolet Trail

[Albedo, I'm assuming you meant the last line to match the second, and I'm using the second]


I made a free and frank confession,
hoping you would do the same.
Throwing off all wise discretion,
I made a free and frank confession,
while you kept your soul's possessions.
I've no one but myself to blame.
I made a free and frank confession,
hoping you would do the same.

Hoping you would do the same,
for me, it's just the way I am.
No one else can make me sane,
hoping you would do. The same
"friends" I trust see me as lame.
They do not give a tinker's dam—
hoping you would. Do the same
for me. It's just the way I am.

For me, it's just the way I am.
I'd rather be angry than fair.
A raging lion amidst the lambs --
for me, it's just the way I am.
My rioting proves I give a damn --
I'm not just blasting out hot air.
For me, it's just the way I am,
I'd rather be angry than fair.

I'd rather be angry than fair
in the midst of rage. I’ve no fear
coursing red with this age; ensnared.
I'd rather be angry than fair
lily-white; entangled in pairs;
lost in the night. Let’s engage, dear.
I'd rather be angry than fair.
In the midst of rage, I’ve no fear.

In the midst of rage, I've no fear
Only blinding crimson silence
Around a single path that's clear.
In the midst of rage, I've no fear
Nor fairness have I held so dear
While the world succumbs to vengeance.
In the midst of rage, I've no fear
Only blinding crimson silence.

Only blinding crimson, silence,
floods the rainbow tune in my head
as it hits the pavement. No sense!
Only blinding crimson. Silence:
the effect of your violence.
Blood: the price of my love, now dead
(only blinding; crimson). Silence
floods the rainbow tune in my head.

Floods the rainbow tune in my head
with thoughts of rage and destruction
from the masses. Molten lead
floods the rainbow. Tune in? My head
turns. The last wishes of the dead—
hope and prayer for resurrection—
floods the rainbow tune in my head
with thoughts of rage and destruction.

With thoughts of rage and destruction,
I heard of the atrocities.
I met each fresh proof of corruption
with thoughts of rage. And destruction
followed in my wake. Construction
had no place in my ferocity.
With thoughts of rage and destruction,
I heard of the atrocities.

I heard of the atrocities.
Are forces (more than you imagine!)
falling down at mass velocity?
I heard of the atrocities,
and it peaked my curiousity:
no job ain’t the worst sort of famine
I heard of. The atrocities
are forces more than you imagine.

Are forces, more than you imagine,
lurking by the door?
Your fears, your hates, your passions,
are forces. More than you imagine,
they wait, unrecognized assassins.
Deep within your core
are forces more than you imagine,
lurking by the door.

lurking by the door
the thief contemplated attack
though he had murdered before
lurking by the door
of his friend felt more
his courage began to crack
lurking by the door
the thief contemplated the attack

The thief contemplated the attack
was a ruse. The better treasure to steal
was the attention of millions. In black,
the thief contemplated. The attack
would pitch moral conscience centuries back.
Imagine all the people who could heal
the thief. Contemplated, the attack
was a ruse; the better treasure to steal.

Was a ruse the better treasure to steal?
His assets might not be worth my while,
but his robbery scheme sounded ideal.
Was a ruse the better treasure? To steal
from the bank itself had much more appeal --
unless of course his seeming guile
was a ruse. The better treasure? To steal
his assets might not be worth my while.

his assets might not be worth my while
fist size diamonds, glowing red rubies
an evening with friends brings the smile
his assets might not be worth my while
money has long gone out of style
holiday with pals; cold night, some music and light breeze
his assets might not be worth my while
fist size diamonds, glowing red rubies

Fist sized diamonds, glowing red rubies;
ornamental decor obstructs his pine.
Naught but dead weight nestled ‘twixt those boobies.
Fist sized diamonds, glowing red rubies,
stretch each stocking to the hearth of newbies.
Figgy pudding dessert cannot combine
fist sized diamonds, glowing red rubies.
Ornamental decor obstructs his pine.

Oh, dear. That is a difficult line. I shall do my feeble best.

Ornamental décor obstructs his pine,
though all his money cannot cure his yearning,
nor yet his fancy cars and mansions fine.
Ornamental décor obstructs his pine,
so men envy him his women and his wine,
not knowing how his wretched heart is burning.
Ornamental décor obstructs his pine.
though all his money cannot cure his yearning.

Though all his money cannot cure his yearning,
deposited in his soul is his life
account. Stories do not return earnings,
though. All his money cannot cure. His yearning
persists. He must carve out this truth, turning
twists and ragged lines with a surgeon's knife
(though all his money cannot cure). His yearning,
deposited in his soul, is his life.

Deposited in his soul is his life,
devoid of interest and unspent.
For the sake of saving strife,
deposited in his soul is his life,
his empty days, his loveless wife.
He has nothing to repent.
Deposited in his soul is his life,
devoid of interest and unspent.

Devoid, of interest and unspent
dollars Scrooge had dreamed. Dolefully,
his dim spirit spewed malcontent,
devoid of interest and unspent,
damning carols each place he went:
“Strange they still sing so happily,
devoid of interest and unspent
dollars!” Scrooge had dreamed dolefully.

Dollars, Scrooge had dreamed dolefully,
don't give a mattress proper feel.
"A worthless Yankee currency—
dollars." Scrooge had dreamed dolefully
'bout the pounds he'd blown soulfully
on that worthless Bob Cratchit deal.
Dollars! Scrooge had dreamed dolefully,
don't give a mattress proper feel.

OK, damn it. It's silly as hell, but given the line I had to work with, what can one expect?


Don't give a mattress. Proper feel
is such an individual thing.
Feathers, despite the salesman's spiel,
don't give a mattress proper feel
in the eyes of those to whom they don't appeal,
while others may not care for springs.
Don't give a mattress. Proper feel
is such an individual thing.

I like mad. Let's make it a theme here at the Triolet theme park.


Or is "it" more the merrier?
You tell me, o poet of Wales.
The verses turn out scarier,
or is it more. The merrier
I see things from my Harrier,
the more distant—they look like snails.
Or is it "more-the-merrier"?
You tell me, o poet of Wales.

You want mad? oh, I can do mad.


You tell me, o poet of whales --
how do leviathans procreate?
With gasping blowholes and thrashing tails?
You tell me, o poet of whales.
I fear my prurient fancy fails --
I cannot picture how they mate.
You tell me, o poet of whales --
how do leviathans procreate?

How do leviathans procreate?
Within spans of evolution so wide,
only moon and tides can speculate
how. Do leviathans procreate
to stir the sands we cannot contemplate?
These waves of time are not for men to ride.
How do leviathans procreate
within spans of evolution so wide?