What scowl I see upon your face
I’ll take you to your pagan place
And let you reap your winter’s corn
And eat the seed that you do scorn
Behold the light, it has grown low
Scarcely just a cinder glow
Yet you still reach into the fire
Your belly bitter with your ire
Fan the flame you pompous fool
Your brow shall sweat for winter’s cool
And when your fire consumes your heart
Gentle winds shall too depart
Yearning barren ashy soul
Your harvest field shall reap no more
No winter corn to feed your girth
For you lost sight of all it’s worth
Your soul to dine on empty cold
No more to feast on ears of gold


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