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I am the Cannon king, behold! I perish on a throne of gold. With forest far and turret high, Renowned and rajah-rich am I. My father was and his before, With wealth we owe to war on war; But let no potentate be proud... There are no pockets in a shroud. By nature I am mild and kind, To gentleness and ruth inclined; And though the pheasants over-run My woods, I will not touch a gun. Yet while each monster that I forge Thunders destruction from its gorge. Death's whisper is, I vow, more loud... There are no pockets in a shroud. My time is short, my ships at sea Already seem like ghosts to me My millions mock me, I am poor As any beggar at my door. My vast dominion I resign, Six feet of earth to claim as mine, Brooding with shoulders bid bitter-bowed ...There are no pockets in a shroud. Dear God, let me purge pure my heart, And be of Heaven's hope a part! Flinging my fortune's foul increase To fight for pity, love and peace. Oh that I could with healing fare, And pledged to poverty and prayer Cry high above the cringing crowd... "Ye fools! Be not by Mammon cowed... There are no pockets in a shroud." Please fill in the fields below and click SUBMIT to send it to your friend.
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