I am the man that
Cheer-mercied the bottles
And never went hurt;
Who carried fire in
My blessedness and there was
No hurt.
I walked on the solo-ways
Of the wind to a
Commander principle
And found no hurt,
Yea-wiring while all
Bowed the knee.
This price is sad for a forensic outlook.
And here is the man whom the bottles
Praise, like a piece of
Paper in a toasted clay.