Infamy Poem by George otto Becker

The master walks.
With all of his talk.
His lies and his mind in a box.

He lies and he speaks.
And rhymes when he sleeps.
And you were decieved.

Upon his works his hands were free.
Within his verse was imagery.
Inside your heart the demon did flee.

In the night you dreamed of poetry.
With his words and your drama you began the disease.
With your talents and feelings you tease.
As for me I live in infamy.