In the year of the Lord
The Giver of gold to the bored
The Merciful to the righteous
Beneficent to, sometimes, the outrageous
Master of a lost contemporary
Worship You all claim secretary
Lead us to kauthar if it is a sooth
Not a contour away from the truth
The three letters we know not
Nor could anyone add a dot
Is anything you cannot foretell
Yet many shall go to hell
The furnace that burns the clay
Only makes it suitable for decay
And so is the rigid follower
Of God Who makes man lower
The words of Milton lost will regain
Shall come to pass with some restrain
But Adam, too, and Eve
Wouldn’t have, again, to leave
