Intil His Holiness Poem by Faeo de Lyre

The Janus hand must not tick
My clock; I may still pick
From the calendars apart.
From abstinence, my heart

Must, when I cannot clean,
Fast; that is where I lean
And when I must flatter
Not or 'gainst me, batter

Down. It is one and not
Fanciful, the church and but
Not the temple of God.
I must hold against all odd,

Of all evil to hold under
All good. Has it intil other
Science, a politics?
Let it mine as it ticks

A clothing, other; but hold
Extravagant, I watch cold,
The boundary. I may breathe
Hell but intil had my wreath

Sacrificial, just; as has
The celestial spy as
Ajar from I had, this epoch.
Let the face of my clock

And behind, intil lopsided
Be scaled not, but decided
Fair to fall but alone and
In either. Borne by hand,

My breath gilds my lying in
State. May the gold betaken
Intil the needed upon my
Grave for a humble pie.