Eight thousand, four hundred and twenty four
I shalt waiteth a million lifetime's
To be in her arm's, tis her I crave.
Tis, I shan't never get sick of her
She alway's bringeth in the new;
Mine convivial consoler is alway's there
When I'm bleeding, feeling blue.
I canst surely count on her
Evident is her affection's;
Whence was going astray
Her glow now point's me in right direction.
So when the old serpent
Creep's his horned visage;
I knoweth mine safety, is with mine Reyna
Sweet Jane, her arm's as pinion's, her spirit from God.
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
— The End —