Treachery

Look at thy ass, and see rove’s mangled brow,

Wrinkled and misshapen from one form to another,

Beyond repair and recognition, it worries how

To trick the sure, slaying son and mother.

She sent her finest man to lie down in your grave,

Mistaken and mislead by all your ample trickery,

Returned in cold coffin; his bounty being brave,

Thy self-love shined for all the world’s posterity.

Thou art resided in thy blessed nation’s darkest hour,

Hurled through Februa’s faded glow of gloom,

Convicted and convinced you hold God’s power,

You wield it without worry from your wrinkled Oval room.

If thy arrogance uncorrected stands for all to know and see,

Thou will leave a lonely man, and thy image dies with thee.

A sonnet, Pikes! You wrote a sonnet!

 

Will would be envious. (I sure am.)