Dying to sin I pay with
Kind heart of contrite mind
Don’t heart your mind mind, my
Plea does not concern the heaven
She is there to watch the small
The little heart is her concern
My life is worth posterity pence
Cast you ballot for the world woe
Is man to be born victim, or
Allow the tree to fall from heaven
We are the objects of wrath
Pining souls for more than these
Bliss is the reward of saints to be
Sure light and done life of good
Paper made from ink holds the time
Extra beliefs challenge its hue
Will the market be cornered
On the point of a boy-hood?
Never mind the theatre of heart
Broken to move ink by my master
Page of paper whips thine eye
Fill the point with tension and
Make the useful unfit to win is
The goal of the page: it speaks
Without conscience or soul to say,
‘Hay, is my my ink dry to droll.


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