I have an eye too strained by the tale spun on wheels,
His story compels me to say the slogan so studied,
Our strife is ruined by the explosions and implosions,
By the very scruffy joys, by the inner qualms of life itself.
A tale is a tale of many, a religion of guardians in honest help,
The guidance and the understanding belongs to a chief
Of words who spins his tale by the brain of a hundred men,
The wordy summation of a worldly prominent feudal man.
They have underestimated the slotted gold, of every man,
These lands are the swords of their holds, off the coasts,
In the citadels of a summary, in the blessings of monastery,
So why do nations stir in the cauldron called the world?
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