Yesterday I committed treason
And gave penance for beauty in lust,
My roses garnered pens for wrought,
A larking tulip sang for bust,
Nor as I were, this pen ailed as ought,
How soon petals be turned to dust.
Never our clouds bred by solemn rain,
My trees sung on earthing veins,
Then God himself would cast them sane!
But my mind is fueled with feign!
So soon heavens may bring hell to more,
The Angel Gabriel in whom I joke,
Now Jesus fought with pains too sore!
And then is Moses whose tablets shook,
But then was I, there too fraught in yoke.

So rode in horse my hour is here,
Then crease my heart till foundling near,
When I’m dust so drink my sight,
Then breath alone till ailing right.

Treason yet, but nor am I done;
Lines yea more till I am gone!
Give four more than ghastly dawn,
When muses watch with boring scorn.
I can’t write more than I read,
So the hour is through I ought to lead!
All is well till ought be lead,
Then truth be told this hour be read.

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