he is unruly, he is but a ****** word
that no righteous tongue will speak,
he is but a old dusty book, unread,
grey with it, he rubs his name from
those he wishes for unseen, and for
one he stays on the line, on beck
and call, but for any other, such as
me, he waits, or does not wait.
for he knows I speak such truths.
he sees the line from which I write,
but I shall never protest his name
for that would be an unrighteous
fate
-moyees