The Chapel Orphan
Bred by unconsecrated among ripe,
secretive scars he would wipe,
grinned upon the mad he did,
while his devoid bleakly hid.
What was it that drove this lad,
is it what this boy once had,
spilled ink he brand his mate,
while others filled his powerful hate?
This chapel was his lyrical tune,
yet malice was there too soon,
abominations gnawed his strings,
while the nuns never clipped his wings.
Midday was the lads' time of joy,
while rhythmical words were his toy,
fury curved with each heated sign,
as he trained his innocent yet lovely whine.
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