Those, who Ruth the World

 

I

Bleeding hearts, who full of Gorm Norm

the nomnom to whelm the underscore.

Nominous in ominous pious scorn;

disgruntled in the Joyous Feast of the Firstborn!

“Let me Help you and amend that sore;

pick that splinter in thine eye, knit your Tor!”

Calent dost not follow yours unkempt Dorf...

II

“You have so much, make it even, Steven;

better, then you cut yourself, shackle free spirit!”

Those, who Ruth the World, to make Leven;

while never been alive, shorted in severance –

there's your badge Magister? Short circuit!

Reed are all your believed outraged esprit;

no sangreal would ever offer their cup, Gwen.

III

Better be Ruthless and Relentless in Grandeur;

why hold contempts begrudged, then you could Breathe!

Temperance in all is the Solomon's key to Splendour –

those, who don't mar their clothes in entendu...

Let the gossip follow its own folly, you Sheathe –

for the Sword of God wants to lay rest in your stealth!!

Whom shall go out in the Name of the Lord, mon coeur?