it depends on the man, and which shackles and chains,
and the blends with which open or closed remain,
it depends on the lands for which he would then reign,
for if he were imprisoned, no man would know gain,
no pain would impress him,
no flame where they rest him,
no game and no injuries, neither abstain,
the skin of the soldier, though winning the fight, may just din out the bolder, at dinner tonight...
so shout above lungs, that the winter was right, and then listen for all of the bumps in the night,
or the orchestras chirping it's song and it's rite, for the forecaster says that it may be alright!
©danjor
D