Poem: Sin got Poure'

From heavens unto these cities of drapes to maniac.

And things got cost,

Like when you can't tell it all this times,

Whilst you draw up some shorts,

And lost in the bossom of the night angels.

 

Whether by chance or happenstance,

Men always has got their sweat tongue cut and dried.

To what end should one inure this,

And little wonder relished?

Only if you’d lost touch,

Oh! Ye Sons of jezebel,

I don't know how but Sin got Poure.