You, knave a supposed libertine?
It points the question confusing sensories,
I won’t be in your seniority
A mindless phase pure savagery.
A couplet is not us
A life for a life complete no trust.
Exiling the pen, quietness in the wind
Is it not wrong the longing for the gun?
The snatched,the silhouette figure
Knave, you have pretense all around
Yet, the slander, is she, due to kin
Frost bite, winters dreary, I don’t pretend
I let missiles speak in a lit form it strikes
Blistering, blaming, blundering
oh! Knave’s head on a spike.
There’s no coming back, not even with a conjuring.
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