A fuzzy fellow, without feet,
Yet doth exceeding run!
A fuzzy fellow, without feet,
Yet doth exceeding run!
Hold me till the Octave's run!
Had I a mighty gun
I think I'd shoot the human race
And then to glory run!
And He and He in mighty List
Unto this present, run,
The larger Glory for the less
A just sufficient Ring.
To satin Races -- he is nought --
But Children on the Don,
Beneath his Tabernacles, play,
And Dnieper Wrestlers, run.
A coward will remain, Sir,
Until the fight is done;
But an immortal hero
Will take his hat, and run!
If I must tell you, of a Horse
My freckled Monarch held the rein --
Doubtless an estimable Beast,
But not at all disposed to run!
To die of thirst -- suspecting
That Brooks in Meadows run!
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories