THE THIEF OF MEATH © 2009
Shall I compare thee to a Summer's Day?
Are not the words that I could say;
But someone with my name once did
And stole the life in which I hid.
And shall I compare thy wit to mine
or finest port to old corked wine?
Where Springs sweet kiss has turned so sour,
And those that have abuse their power.
extract from the poem THE THIEF of MEATH, © 2009 MOSS
Howard Moss on acoustic guitar circa 2005