With weary feet I ride
My worldly worries by my side
They will ride
Until I die
I see the sunset tiptoe upon the horizon
As it sinks into the quicksands below
Its death sad but night cometh
Bringing spirits
O’er baskets weaved wine
The hypocrisy in it all
Dilutes the pain and anguish
In the muzzle of droughted drunkards
I a Paige
Sent from the kingdom of literature
From king Novel
And his homely spirits
It avails me to see such gay men
Laughing and choking on words
Tripping and stumbling like birds
Without flight
Seeking highest highs
I avoid them with lowest lows
To deliver such quote
“The king Is dead! His final words to blow, ‘Yes my son, deliver this message unto all the land. Drink proudly for my appending death. I lendeth you my crown. Take it with glee and wear it proud.’ O’ dear, I musn’t have read such out loud! I assume my fairness is mine and the throne is of lineage and prosperity to my sons and sons before grandsons.” ©

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