Swing-swang the minutes sung, by thirsting hours cursing done; and I have half a life to do!

On, son, on and think not on a thought while sinking–rise to be of something, do!

Can you smell the fell of fall while feeding, fumes that ferret out our feeling when the shout is due?

It curries favor from a cloud, crushing mangers and the sound of saviors, and such denying yet to do!

Oh, why would I be someone waiting, wishing for a Godly baiting, being boastful as I do?

“True” is all the ring that rang, huffing hounds of heaven through the din to me in dew.

I’ll take it too if taxing, to the beast and back their making, of whatever whips from them is due.

For I am I and me is me, that such I see, and God’s decree, and cannot other do.

Amen.