At_Last

I vow A vow To turn this child about at you,

Sustaining till she has dispatched you. Weapons drawn of honor and song Will sunder the pride that unbent you. I'll sharpen her tongue with which She will rent you And suck the exhalings that vent you.

No. No regrets, No second guessings,

No daunting expectation of blessings From the enfeebled bought and sold For promises of tomorrows Paid in turn with greater debts Of unimaginable new horrors.

No.

I'll turn your daughter to hurt you, You cowardly killer of virtue. Embers, Inflections, Cons descending in Ire', Burn through the ayes, igniting the pyres Irreverently fanned in fevered desire For rosters with shamrocks impressed, And parleys on crimes unaddressed.

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