As lonely as a poet on the walls of Jericho
Or the moon without the comfort of the stars
I am loathe to know it that a man without a soul
Is nothing but a spilt canopic jar
I proved it, improved it
Drove a sonnet right through it
And in this state of bliss
Evil kissed with wet lips
Pen-filled fingertips
Which throught me, for throught me
Illuminati usually pissed
But with words of some hurts worth
I threw a party that extended God