Getmoney, dost thou dostanas, mirchi?
Where did you get such bhabis
The horse jockey you ride north-east to the lands of those who remain in-complete
With napolean rise, with lifts on your feet
How is it thou the weather in wolverhampton clouds such basic thoughts, does it plague you like your insufficient height, a consistent haunting of god's great betrayal
But you tell those of your friends that not even god has marred your streak
Like the ray of light that permeates through your bedroom curtains, you prevail, and the plight of a small man shall not fail
For hallofishy is there to a**ist, a married lady of velour and inverted phallus, whose manliness helps you persist
The abstinence of thou glory, with absolution of those holy saints, you remain humble, in your quiet lonely solitude, convinced of victory, like the past emperor of europe, your triumph shall not befallen you
The clarity of your vision, and the abysmal flock of bodies around you, you carry yourself in high regard with your horse and your swagger, crossing battlefields of significant wales, and evil cherubims, whom you dismiss with concerted gaze
You look upon the pale nimbus of fleeting hopes and dreams, and pray, with your sword by your side, and manliness in question
And ask god for consolidation
You wonder whether you suffice his requirements
Whether you have accrued enough battle experience in the fields
And wealth
In body and in spirit
You ask and there is a shade of doubt
For god has punished you for your unworthy height
And he has vanquish'd your false reign
Such that you are left fleeting
And dismembered
To the beggars dance
With an ill-fated swine
The swine, the swine, the pig-faced moorish rings of skin which have no feminine shade
Drink some more wine you shall
To eliminate the depressive sight numbed by a man's drunken haze
And mate with a bore you shall, cursed with beelzebub and his peers
In the gates of hell
You have all that there is to fear
For they bask in your tears
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