Sermon (of the Cynic)

Chains of gold,

What they hold—

Nothing you can see.

From the mold,

Clunky, cold—

Never to be free.

Can’t be told,

Can’t be sold—

Dire dignity.

This fate old;

No ‘paroled’—

You must let it be.

To sleep lulled,

Soon be culled—

Some calamity…

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