I am but, just a speck of dust,
to your highness, your grandeur.
Pardon me though, 'cos speak I must,
of how your words did I endure.
Speak not I, of how thereby;
I fell in love, with a sweet slow number.
Yes I cry, of whilst you try,
to drown our souls, in deep dark slumber.
Eyes quite shut, and body all drained,
preach when you in a foreign tongue.
And a hand when raised, of audacity stained;
the tortureous meet, is for an hour yet hung.
