Pull my strings oh Muse,

And my smart fingers will

Dance to your tunes

Of worthy poetical skills

And terse-verse lyrical cores

Table me a choice, Oh muse

Either road I choose,

Still pull my strings

For my audience are starving;

Their tongues of praise is parched

Buy my thoughts Oh Muse

Not with a meager penny

But with inspirations so many

More than the birds boarding the sky

Let’s drench their burnt tongue

And feed their empty bowel

With stacks of poetic manna;

Oceans of rhythmical wines

Lest they doubt my finesse

And I curse your worthiness!

Who's great that we 
quake and brake and quep
and jerk our step in our hop
who's great and straight
like the lick that drips from the sky
and wild and dam and burn
like the fire that ashed down Gomorah.
Whose great pick and bit
can tear and rake off the skin
of the uncircumcise gaint that gape
that strangle
and jailup in and a five million pounds
chain of steel
the gay pant and
indespensable tranpuility and glamour
of my dear country
who's great to dare
to live among the dead
to hang on the torture stake
for truth, for the children sake.
Let him set his feast
for his face must be bruice
and his heel i bet 'll be grind
and his life won't be spared
his body let under the slap
of the digger's spade
against the dirty grains
that seal up the icey
six feet deep apartment
who's great to bring the bling
and ring a ring for new drink
toast to a new birth
of unity and hope, peace and progress
let him wear his amoury
of love
     and live to die for
         truth     
    and his glory foever
remains a tale to tell
for the country
   he save from helluth     
    and his glory foever
remains a tale to tell
for the country
   he save from hell