Final Plea

I’m tired of all this trying, m’lord.
Just send me away for dying, m’lord.

I’ve aired the skeletons of those in power.
So, hang me out for drying, m’lord.

If proof you need to hide your hide, I will
Confess me a plea of spying, m’lord.

If, in a week, I’ll lie in markless graves,
I’ll buy me a name for lying, m’lord.

In all the things that will go wrong, I have
A treaty for which I’m vying, m’lord:

My transparency is full and empty.
Let half be my glass of crying, m’lord.

Let half be my glass of crying, m’lord.

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