I stand a destitute
And my lungs scream out
To call upon my aide
To seize my unruly ire
As it not ever abetted me
But gratify me
With posy of endowmwents
And floored dosh

When I keep on quiet
Rather which I can't brook
Hitherto I can't triumph
Barred my acumens
Waiting for you, aide
Yet no faith you are coming