The Sycophant
A man is at his ugly best
when he recovers from night rest
Look at that man
perhaps the resting sun
dwelt on his chest
the rays carried torments of the morrow
of the hectic routine he would follow
Throughout the night
he wore his eyes tight without their lid
Today He's after the man
who lured him to fell
the fruitful neem
that harbored his dream
by his numb thumb
he did succumb
should he get him
he'd lynch him with a deadly rage of hell
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