AtLast_[07]

Staggered by this gavel's weight, Wakened late but fit for fight Metal bent, I crush the gate.

My word is my promise. I promised words

Not thoughtlessly given Nor comfortably heard. They are the your child that will turn against you To censure the plunder unmeant you.

Candor revealed as artful gamble Dims the glow of sham, And tools the nay'ers of the soothe. Say'ers of the truth.

A thunder of shocking enlightening as sent through This infant will chancre the temper Hell lent you.

Your child, My charge, Will transform against you!

Don't point your poisoned talon at me. How was it we came so far and so badly? Can we exist enslaved and go gladly About our way As chattel of a presence, unconcerned?