By now this Parable your Mind compels
At Arm's Point shift Targets your Heart's pursuit
Retrieve Correction; And a Soul which sells
A ****** whose Career begs his Debut
I'll leave it at that, your Frost-Fingered Friend
***** your Sphere to whose Raged Interest provide
And Ricin - the Elder's Pleading Tongue - rend
Hapless Wordings for your Sapling confide
Still, at this Level of your Tender Waves
Bring Olives made tasty for you to swallow
Just leave the Credit for your thoughts and saves
And let Inspiration plead you follow.
Put it down. Twenty Voices already cried
To carry their Lives; Of Illness has died.