Judgement is the lords,
The final arbiter of sorts,
So leave all yours, and your contortions,
They’re way out of proportion,
Love also, is the lords,
And never out of sorts,
Leave yours, in a basket by the way,
And let him have his say,
And thank him, for he’s light,
For we are not too bright,
We’d fumble in the dark,
Without his loving spark,
And thank him, to make things even,
Comes the end, all things are even Steven,
A new beginning is for all,
Like newborn critters in his stall.
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Georg
For we are not too bright
Quite profound, my friend.
Mary
Edwin