The billows seemed gloomy,
And they were already in the grief mood,
On the early sun-day morning.
The sojourner, left to sentry
Was now resting on his sick bed
The enthusiastic lover and laugher,
Was now coughing enthusiastically.
Sunday wasn’t his day,
He just had to pay.
He had lived the life of a compromiser:
As evidenced with the way he would treat both gender-
The man loved looking into skirts,
All he appreciated was fashion.
He would say ‘this is what I do most of my times’
And indeed,
He was to it on his sick bed.
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