Beds and fire are lyres to liars so dire

Where black holes are red Hells that never tire.

The spine of blood is bitterness to bones

Where flows the soul of silver tongues in gleam

To innocent minds who are blind to tones

Of voices, and voices of, those who seem

To fog the truth in poison unaton’d.

Hailing stones and raving curses ont’ thee

Who singest words of an uncouth-like sooth

As if a fortune falls in path to see,

And lay – beheld! – by all the eyes of youth

Who thou deceivest in what they shall be.

Abuse the language of the pious not

For loss of love is all thou wilt begot.

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