Pace has become languid,
Face, in shame, become hid.
Case the same, hang the kid.
Race to fame rang fetid.
Forever is, moreover,
a river which quivers
before morality,
sore from reality.
Caught in the current,
kid ought be sub-servant,
call kin to cure of him
indecision so grim.
In pride he shall confide,
pry free will from inside
himself. No plea bargain
for wealth to flee from sin.
The gavel hammers down,
judgment of putrid town,
jutting like cur's pimple,
from skin, fur, so supple.