Poets

Literature is a precious truth upon a
Revelation of the untold tongue of
Grammar, that man is wont to utter.
It is that hard his science works that
Comes over any's unconvincing politics.
Aye! Come it to note that I Faeo
de Lyre a.k.a. Faeo 'Lyre' Clive ___ a
Kinsman of Olaudah Equiano a.k.a.
Gustavus Vassa, is about that which
Becomes literary; blithe would I breathe
Upon. In love, about health and life,
For the buyers and in withdrawal, I
Deposit intil the literary but from
Prizes for I know not the calling. I
Forgave this blood circulate and
Thus God breathe on him; that is
The Literary and in me as it runs
But in my penitence, as for God as
In Poesy mine. I bought this clock
But that he conquered my breast.
Poesy is what I labour to cultivate
In a bountiful fruition; to show
Thus in might intil that I dream.
I have no star in my store but legends.

Would one count my fingers? Of the
Leopard family, if added let's divide, I
Digest my peace intil sadness but sad
Intil the forgive no red. Lots shall
Not become me; when they shall, I shall
Not. Thus, stoical intil the fed, I
Shall lose over my charge. I am
Not a figure but one symbol, sunny.
This hand is the heaviest of me,
Though in breakages. Alas! The
Literary prey on my science. Introvert
I aimed, shakespearean; intil a
Catholic devout, teetotal, a non
Smoker and despite a bachelor,
Spends no leisure after philandering.

Stirred to forgo the proud, I lag
Behind no other's affa..