The Hermit


The Hermit stands with lamp in hand
As he looks down from on his peak
He holds his staff as down he'll gaze
With age his joints all ache and creak
He spies the rogues, corrupt and such
concealed, disguised and robed in fear
They know he sees, but naught they do
To cease the evil on this sphere
But nor does he, he'll only watch
And wait as treason takes its toll
He simply gazes from his mount
And listens to the brass bells knoll



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