On the night of May the seventh,
Stood he shaken, shouting, crying.
Nine guys sang, hit hard eleventh;
Cackled they, but boy, he was sighing!
Those guys ruthless, went hitting hard;
Circling him, hurled they abuses.
He, however, prayed to his God,
Begging Him to heal his bruises.
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Came a moment when mad he grew,
Shouting at the top of his voice.
That time said he something too true:
Day will come when you’ll have no choice.
Fearing for life, the boys ran fast.
God was heard then, ‘Bad times don’t last.’
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Categories: Rhythmic and Metric