Poemander

The words are a claptrap if not with the punch,

They must take it down, abolish and crunch.

They too must uplift, like a magical aether,

Words shall heal the wounds or cast souls in nether.

How many thin lots accepted from fools,

The skols of hemlock to liars and fawners.

How high still required to carry the woods

Of fir, of the pine and the box, acquit murderers.

Those same who condemn shall rise the pennant,

Trumpet and proclaim contrived type of heresy.

To their calumny a life-time tenant,

Shall not I refrain nor lapse regeneracy.

And once the machines recite every word,

Recuperate I shall meaning forbiddenly.

Inspire them first to be like god

Then only come back and teach 'em feel humanly.