"Don't Call Her"

Don't call Her 
No more. She's 
In Her Command.
You know who I speak 
of, and She

Has a name. It isn't 
'brief candle,' nor She'Easga! 
She wasn't of French-Irish seed 
in some bra, or some bar 
or some door to nocturnal 
regime. Don't call her name
sleeping, awake in day-dreams,
do not call her up crying, your wires
alight. She once was velitas, too 

True for this fight.  

Let us banish us, 
and depend from 
just 'we.' It takes 
one to know this: 
fire or flee. It took 
Flea's blood, sugar and 
mate's magic ship: to 
comfort us each, once 
and set wax adrip. No 
lullaby, pain, no no 
clarion call. No apostle 
you'd name is prepared 
for next fall. No disciple 
I'd follow or utter one plea 
to compares to her answer:

Just 'no.' Never seize her 
nor try to make do, nor 
try to give in by an influenced 
way we'd call Mocking. No 
sin ever touched Brandon 
Lee in his revenant pic. 

He just wanted daddy 

to look down, a bit.  
Let us not conspire.
It's not between you. 
It's not between me, 
nor with someone 
you knew. You knew 
her name too, only 
once. Just enough. 

It isn't just promises, 
lies, it's no bluff  - but 

if you sleep apace, and
at peace, in the clear for 
one night breath abated 
with a conscience unclear? 

Then: it is no big 'If'
that good Doctors pre
-scribe. Please wake to

some 
rainbow,
exclaiming 
(and not without 
Pride, no not like 
a cat, no not like 
a fire, with balls 
and one bat!)

'Oh, dear.'

Let that anti-pro 
lullaby sleep. We've 
all gotten paid in 
this life. No? 

Let's weep.

Let us pray, or prey not. 
Let us soar without wing, 
Call it Left, Right or snot! 

We shall never be King.