A Killer Smuggler
He keeps brandishing a sword
That sort of him makes a Lord,
Plus the Illicit gin they hoard
And his plane they’re about to board
That shall soon fly over a fjord;
To his territory of control, quite broad.
He keeps repeating that he is The Lord
To co smugglers – A horde,
In whom his words strike up a chord
But mainly witnesses to how his sword
Had into two cut a spinal cord!
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