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All English Sonnets

LAST CRY

Whosoever is up there, running the show,
Mister Supreme Being Sir, please keep it up.
I am pseudo rebel for presence, My cup
(Please! forgive me if I sound a bit highbrow).

Of miseries is overflowing and unaided,
My life is slipping and my parched life,
Is cracked with thrust and my grip on my grief,
Is loosening uncontrolled, unpersuaded.

In forbidden gardens I have lived degraded;
Dissipated precious moments and sinned.
And with the nails of shame coffin pinned;
As the lowest of the wretches masqueraded.

Please listen to my pleas mull over a mite,
Mr. Supreme Being Sir, give me respite.

GREETING

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