In lay the thousands of a pounding
The chasm of an outlaw’s sole
And found Him on eyes, the gorging
Left bounded past the highest roll
A thought on what to consider
What meal would do quite good?
Past the highest rolls of paper
Whatever quite good meal could?
So, so, was favored though which
One’s tongue may cripple with
The slightest touch, the painful tinge
Within every purpose-found deed
In every tease, an uncanny man
The tempest temp to own
What could unhurt, what could undone?
His jolly ol’ jitterbug throne
What man could reap a fruit?
On what fruit may reap a man?
Who wears outside, the finest truth?
On His every single written plan?
