The fiend is at my throat mother,
I keep lying through my teeth,
When will the angels gather,
And ease the black beast’s grip?
My soul, you say, is precious,
Precious than all treasure.
It doesn’t feed my belly nor
Shield me from the weather,
But kings stroke with eager hands,
The thieving black beast’s hair,
Their bellies full, their coffers
gilt,
With treasures tore from earth’s bier.
The talk of eternity and grace
Is all too fine for a Christian scholar,
Who’s never heard his belly rumble,
Or slept in stables or plain heather.
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