The Ire Of The Day Poem by Sean S

Hark, the moonlight beckons yonder,
thus with it I begin to ponder,
why the sacred night,
is forsaken with the belief that it is full of unholy fright,
and yet when I think of the day,
I begin to feel woozy and sway.

That man who we call our king,
sits on that throne and does nary a thing,
we sit in our hovels, cooking our stew,
and yet we beseech, but what does he do?
Every morning as the sunlight breaks through that gate,
I pray to the lord, not to suffer Saint Peter's fate.
For the night cannot stay,
as it trembles in fear of the ire of the day.
Bandits, rogue knights, and barons of war,
all wreck havoc and pillage the poor.
But what we can do, the strong will do what they must,
for it is a world we live in of lies, treachery, and lust.

For the daylight breaks over yonder,
ergo I must cease to ponder.
For the sorrows of the king will not lay on my grave,
they will pass me by, as I am his slave.
If no work is produced by start of the night.
I fear that out rage I will suffer his might.