The Lord Of Ink Poem by Ebi Robert

I have ended voice vows as the parson live
I have uttered words bank which the peasant give
Till the moon pale search sachet grieve
I will bleed of the ink of my Teach
They have planted garden of gangrene after leaf
I have knifed pages in the ages of my leave
I have keep hidden in the ink of my lips
Till the moon pale search seeking sachet grieve
Thus the pots pen riseth in the bed for thy teeth
Year after year, abuse busy of beep beach
At the eyes be sweeten at the sweetness of the sweet
I be humble free of the three treating me

I am clear with fear of the year be hear
If I hear you the gear you hear
I will fairly wear the pen of my reach
Till the moon pale search the lord of ink
I be sure of being the lord of ink