---

Sorrow becomes but a folly

when jesters weep in costume

The howling discord of the unsatisfied

rends me unto fits of laughter

Reaching arms and open mouths

swayed by grief and dreams of fortune

I witness these sorrows before me

and smell them sour on greedy breath

decry those whom destiny saddled

whimpering for an equal portion

How clever they smirk under hooded cloth

burning their homes to protest yours

the fires of hell are frigid cold

compared to these of jealous wh--es

I will feed you naught

woebegone beggar of idle hands

Beseech thy neighborly coin

And they too wish right-rid of you

You

Black hearted wretches

uprooting the steadfast

injecting feigned inequity

like poison to foolish ears

Clamoring upon refuse

Your good for nothing hands are bare

Whilst mocking the great empire

you cannot cure your own hunger

How far stretches forced pity

for thieves and slighting tongues?

How must I suffer loud pillocks

the yammering of the unbeaten?

Time will pity your welts

black rags warm sickly skin

morality of the inferior-

wasted deaths will be ignored

You've swindled from one at last

whom smiling cures your abhorrent life

I would drown you as a maimed bird

If I held but the waste of glove.

Nothing stirs the violence in kind men

like the virtues of an un-whipped slave