Ad Nauseum

“It is the work of my life.”
The old Hermit cries
As he nervously scribes.

“They promised me wealth and a beautiful wife.”
Not one night he lies,
Of his life he’s deprived.

The slave driver whips at the tune of the fife.
The hermit lays back and dies,
As his throat is cut with knives.

For him there is no prayer, if any,
For he is just one of many.

The End

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