I thought I put up a tent,
I racked up chains, chards and Chopard
It was inside of beast,
I Flared,
Flabbergasted, I knew there was
An indecent stare,

I put the candle and the pen in his pancreas,
And wore what was left of a man,
A writer is a friendly beast,
Beast he heard and he ran.

I Write of Sonia the Mexican peddler
Of two counts of forgery and what not,
A writer's guilt is that he forgets man,
And he becomes the God.
A writer's guilt is Bible's trouble
To determine a Lord.