Riches I hold in high esteem,
And Love’s what I adore;
And lust of fame, my fondest dream
I crave it all the more:
And, if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is, ‘Stop the witch-hunt then and there
give me presidency!’
Yea, as these things all slip my grasp
‘Tis all that I implore:
My frantic voice in one last gasp
cries more and more and more.
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