In singsong fashion
Points the assassin
To remedy
A coursing problem
Coarse, with wisdom,
To the touch
Of embarrassed legions
Regents march indubitably
Scented like filthy
Moss-overgrown trees
That litter our Earth
And warmth, in the hearth,
Of a fire
Brought to us here
Swim in the desire
To dream of times of lyre
Castigate the entire
Race of humanizers
That listen to my words
And then heed not
My warning
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