You look, look into the creases,
that fish into the proximal palmer’s sea,
You cross, cross beneath the cloak’s phalanxes,
to foster the holder latter’s see,
check by your arts my new light,
the light that sauce my inn’s gander,
check by your arts my new blight,
the blight that sauce for my goose outer,
burn me the star and I will believe,
design me the fate and I will grieve,
Your saliva welcomes the truthful effect,
the word is a god,
that fashions the life’s polar,
your tongue bow, wows the Adamic elect,
does he who gives by labor not God?
On distance reins, he rains the solar,
why do you disturb the humble palmer?
Is it not that which hears its owner?
And makes the center of his labor hold?
All creatures are good in their fold.
You say four lines are birthed on palms,
and enough for the past and future,
then show me my life, fate, head, and heart psalms,
and I will show you the lies of your pleasure,
you say the giant is the dwarf,
you say the dwarf is the giant,
you say the valiant is as Timid as the serve,
you say the serve is as brave as the valiant,
yet, it is your discourse that discord good manners,
my honesty and my Labor herald the luck thereafter.