Crisp and gentle
So holy and pure
But within his censor
He was a torrented garment
Gnawed and corroded
He walks amidst worldly glory
But deep within he was gury
He tries his best to sail through
But his ship sinks of chaos
So he walks
Searching for the cure
His woes from the imps skied
But he was bent to go on
Then at a field
Fallowed in desolation
Stood a stake
Like the letter “T”
But less calling
And lovely
It stood amidst
A crown of thorns
There before such
The gentleman fell on his knees
For mercy.
