That fella to seemingly false gods
Giveth his entire devotion, worshipping
Carved and graven images and idols
Instead of the Lord Almighty in heaven.
Even the witches in their chosen coven
And Satan himself are to God bowing.
Idolatry filleth God's heart with sorrow
Like adultery bringeth to a home woe.

Strutting like a lion as though i had
In my cent-packed wallet a million
Toward the belle enchanting. I, a chap
Plucky from my teens, have learnt dominion
Over cheeky fear and cowardice
By tutoring myself at least thrice
Fold in uttering plain convincing speech
Betimes to she who my eye and heart
Will lure by her graces, a maiden that
Her goodness doth to my soul preach.
Though confidence may win me a popsy
Fair; yet it can't fill her empty belly.

Though i should have a M. Maybach and Bently
And Ferari, owning houses in the world's
Chief cities--mansions worth millions
Of US dollars, with yachts and jets; and be
Decked in designers and a bespoke Rolex--
One that none again the very sort of
'Watch possesses; and with many a dove
Stunning be surrounded oft as we in ***
Roll hither and thither in uncensored ******;
And i should become for merriment an epicure;
Filling my head with diverse theories impure,
which give not mine soul that lasting bliss;
And though i should have plenitude of cash
Stashed in a vault away, with gold and diamond
Great; but if not for heaven i am bound
Afterward in afterlife, then, all is trash.