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