He wrote to please, and wrote of things that sounded like lies, up until they found the bodies, and disguises.

He torched the wounds, and assumed longevity in his nativity of babies, where he laid in a crib, to accept the gifts, of wise men.

He wrote of feelings, reeling in the fish, of the rarest dishes, swishing the poisons, of his potions, he anointed himself Man, standing proud with his **** out.

He was, and is, without a doubt, the weirdest sound your type have found, from your island resorts, to your wooded towns, you wish him near you, and its so.