I am a young man in my prime,
A warrior I would be.
But I’ve not the strength or the time,
To help those slaves be free.
But I can write it in a Book,
And David is his name.
His enemies fled with just a look,
His kingship grew in fame.
I thought that farming would be great.
To water, till and hoe.
But greenery was not my fate.
Things for me would not grow.
But now the story I can tell,
Of Cain and all his fields.
He raised his crops so very well,
He had some mighty yields.
I longed to be an iron man,
To mold and shape the steel.
I quickly learned that heated fan,
Would make my skin just peal.
I now just write on scrolls of old.
How refinement makes us clean.
They’ll last beyond the ages told,
Where future people glean.
I guess my calling is from God,
To write His word and script.
Spoil the child and spare the rod,
If not properly equipped.
By now you’ve guessed just what I do.
A monk in castled lands.
I write Gods word till I am blue,
Making copies with my hands.
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