Christopher

Woe to me, in this den of thorns,
Come slow to me, for they call me forlorn,
Gone are the nights of comfort and spite,
Present are the nights to eat is to fight
Forget not my gentile mother,
But snivel for me not, this fire is my brother,
And in this place of cold and trials,
I ask not for a god to adjust the dails,
For if I wake tomorrow morning,
The weather'll be fair, but my heart will be storming.
I beg not not for empathy,
In my forest tis of thee,
True land of liberty