(From The Poem: 'Sorry' - Ken McEwan)
This man a putrid wretch of knots
Whom limps among his fellow trees
He is a lonely of woes and yet
Forgotten, he's trampled as he pleas
This thing a storm expressed by doubt
He hurts, used by moralities Cause
It is a wicked way to learn and yet
Excused, he's punished for his flaws
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