The hue and cry.
And for this King,
We gladly vie.
Vict'ry, Vict'ry,
Fortunes be great.
For of this death,
Our souls be sate.
A Saint, A Saint,
His breath be done,
Legacy left,
To only son.
SWEAT
Spring is safe,
So long as summer stays,
Some distance thus,
Will welter wildly whence it wants,
Wilting whomever wickedly,
Ergo… each entreaty,
Every emoted plea emitted,
Ends egregiously,
And we all amble about,
Arguably of altered alertness,
Alack and alas,
This tainted torridity,
Taxes tender to tough attendants,
Tacking on intrepid thirst to boot!
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