Oh, you scoundrel,
Which I deal with every day,
How I hate you so,
When you must govern my life,
As if I have no control over you.
You fiend, which feasts on my pain,
How I hate you when you come at my direst hour,
Flourishing from my torment,
And thriving off my desperation.
O, Desire, who do you think you are?
That you can give your victims pain?
And make your hosts suffer plight?
Who are you to make people suffer in life,
To give them endless strife,
To deprive them of every bit of happiness in this world?
To give them pride,
And to give them vanity,
Which makes them fall in the end?
Who are you to make me suffer?
Who are you to make humans suffer?
Oh, you know no limits.
You foul fiend, you cruel cretin,
You shrewd scoundrel, you wily weasel,
You know no limits and can take of whomever you please,
But I have learned that,
In his Miltonic plight,
That virtue conquers all
And shall give me hope in life.
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