I've a sui-generis tendency to ape that sainted cat from Assisi who lends me this moniker with mouth-confounding interests.
I cop ascetically tasteless means for living and an auto-inflicting knack, but we part weepy ways at the nobler wherefore of his arts.
He self-stigmatized for Faith, I stab at lesser Love's tortured metaphors, and my plump palms bare only the throb of a heart foolish for one once gripped.
Move on I must, wholly hand-in-hand with hag Hope to cajole a jab by bumptious Charity, touch of her tip flushing blues from my fleshy side.
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