Poemart 17 - Yorktown Disciple - Ministry - Sonnet
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The Ministry

King of molested irony, unshackled from eternal hell,
Laughing away the harshest critics of stolen ethics,
I rule my landsman with iron will along with a horses smell,
Without such command - encounters of constant polemics,
I tax the slave for good of social ease; for wealth that be,
The lesson of a Master's whip not lost on the crying few;
I shall travel on paved streets;  demand of trolls a greater fee.
All the provisions they provide just waiting to quickly accrue.
Ministry in the morning, prayer at night; a solemn pledge to keep.
When wisest of all nobility lends itself to foster foolish expectation,
The adjudicator searches for riches of expanding harvests to reap.
Truncated bliss slips under the hooves of galloping spiritual elation,
And I was sent by god, to do my will, and keep the planet growing.
With my whip and my wit, I'll keep peasant minds warily towing.

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