All Are Arms In War

All stones are arms in war. A day in my tutelage, In my father's corn-field, I stood as Oranyan's plinth; I heard the lion roar: Why are you a statue son? “My sickle Sir, I stuttered”. "Strike now and don't be still, All stones are arms in war; Strike and be somewhere son". So with my goatee beard, In the Land, my pot was denied, Should I be still as another hay? His voice came like echo's wave : "Strike now and don't be still; All stones are arms in war; Strike and be somewhere son". So I applied the brawl of age And became the city roustabout. But the Father’s kingdom came When gourd was given a chance To give an account of the pot. Now the head relieves the brawl. Knock, knock; who is there? “The throne has a cachet for you”. So I look in retrospect And wish to tell you, my son: Strike now and don't be still, All stones are arms in war; Strike and be somewhere son. The royal will post the Laurel.