Those that shove past you, glare and scatter,
That drive the scares, in your wits and slither,
That smile and stare, at things you did master,
And then them that you will, lose and move,
Or through thicks, care for and pursue.

The bearers of the whips of black scythes,
Folded in turbulent evils of shaded blythes,
That wait in desires of you, to swift in myths,
And then bear of nothingness, the power of slices,
Unnerved by the struggles to free, from the swings and minces.

There are those that, in swears vow and plead,
Please with, in steps synching walk on paths,
That they laid in thorns, that they enroute,
And awaits them, in rounds, on routes.

Maintain the binds to them, in pomposity,
That you may, in silence, find prosperity,
In pretence, that with them, you are,
Swinged and minces from bites,
Of their evil, the scythe.