Ireland's Regal Way

The moors beat today, as my weary feet find a song calling me to the cliffs far away.  A scant reference to cocaine and my mother is Muenter again.  The man was only a phase of bullets my way.  Violence in the land of bricks and voodoo.  This is not that commoners day.  For you, France is opening the gates of The Bastille and now The Guillotine is real.  The mists are of the sea, but not of the gales of Ireland.  So many approach when the broach is worn by this maiden telepathically.  Who is this Swiss Miss to a society that will never dance the way of change and ownership of sin and authority?  Who do I speak to through this prosey poetry?  I give you all a lilt of an accent through song, and all of YOU are delusional today.  People move into the demonry of their forms in secrecy, but in that space one cannot hide from the mind.  Soon enough, the birth will be Stallion and KING will be he who enflames me completely with the passion and desire of secrecy and touching chivalry and romanticism to infinty.  YOU are worth the wait.  Love, Princess Hope