My brother the Chaldean a man of truth He walks the straight line and plays the mystic flute When the day is done and he lays down his head Not an ill word can be spoken about the man asleep in bed Each day he awakens with a mind that is free Only to be fettered by the dictates and decrees His conflict is evident owed to his personal good report This fails to mesh with the zeigiest afloat He will but prevail and his words will resound It shall make recurring echoes in the hills that surround Truth that is needed and will be conveyed by his words Once understood will make sense to nonchalant nerds Once he has gained the trappings of the dime Shall this Chaldean colossus be obliterated by time? Shall he shelve his knowledge for new found instruction? Or keep it contained as I have - till he can speak against corruption
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