God, we’re so stupid, Boy,
You must house more gems,
crammed up that stinking hole,
of course turned back into coal,
aw, it’s really too perfect,
maybe next visit, Lord Shoal!
Fight with this encounter, Daughter,
and see if You will possibly contend,
grappling Your sorry cross for once,
leveled during my vehement belligerency,
under our audience’s war of words,
quarrel, then contest until ol’ Father hears!
Push in every odd tussle or three,
wrestle over stainless chickens and doves,
against Your pesky haunting rivalry,
because Baby can’t take competition,
throughout His mock trials and aims,
endeavoring below a thoughtless venture!
Controversy dribbles atop rags from Your lips,
simply coasting by those laughably ordered events,
attempting One’s pathetic luck at His staged crack,
quite labored, unworthy of chance or hazard,
essays blowing around litigated rocks and sand,
nearly impossible they speak the truth of anything!
Sharwrong's Song 