Epistle

Be not, the compassionate fellow,

On this earth, charity will ravage you,

Better to be fixed and mellow,

For what reasons will they help you?

Not always will the favor

be returned, Fate often, never delivers.

But wait, do not utter a breath,

The winged kneecap of death

razes those who allot no time

for themselves, so squeeze a lime,

Thrive! For this moment may be your last

and thrive, potent will it prove to surpass.