Behold my eyes,
behold my ever-dripping lateral bitter waters,
that runs-down the gutters of my face,
leaving only its memory of warmth,
done by the shadowy mace.
Behold, behold that axe, that cut that green cum white cake, that are meant for all men, but, eaten by the me-only-men, and even, storing some for their children's children. Leaving the marshed-mouldy-morsels, for the lowly serviles. Behold now the dilemma, though many ripe oranges we are given, but, we know not which to choose, for the past ones we chose chameleons to rotten oranges with time, leaving the state in a gym. Behold, I stood on the mount, gazing and gazing, in deep thought, I am, how, in few moons, sacks of rice, many hearts are bought, but, for seasons, their skin be ripened off their body, leaving the master minds dejavu.