Is It Poetry
Judge Of Discernment - Poem by Is It Poetry
To wit, therein, forthwith, moreover is posthaste, saith I, to you I pray.
And I, who am full in the state and why by they, do I worry so.
Come Judge of discernment and take up thy cause,
which by your good grace and fortune is by your hand thine.
And thy it picks it up and shakes it sorely, woe unto they out.
I am bothered,
someone's witness, has tampered and whereof it is known.
Bring them thine presents not of jail, naught of me, therein is no joy.
It is possible at one time, to withstand them all.
They are as many as the ants and as ants, act as such.
And Am I, and I am at your judgement hall, the place wherein it is.
Thy loan of they, of it, to be by your hand, make it stop.
Humbled by what is right in your eyes and of he, they knew naught.
And of whom naught by that, what unto he, knew thus was it wrong?
Wherein no crime of which unto you, have no cause th, they would I say.
And should thine yoke unto he, thus be thereupon then be loosened.
Brought up from the land, whereupon by her hand where the innocent person is surrounded,
by the guilty and the innocence it flaunted is due guaranteed?
And it dies for lack thereof and these things of those,
where it has been by this psychologically altered, it is unnatural.
Then by your hand it is so by your leave release it.
But when is what there is from which works ill, reward them naught.
There is no honor in that,
and everything here therefore as for God my enemies are then yours. And where those have thought you to send me there unto them
show them then your pleasure, it is so, let it be, by yours in trust entirely.
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