Get back to the cause of it all: that virtue burrows deep into the heart and holds, avoiding everything

(and) so values preservation over action. But I want to see it now--Change be called. It's only everything.

My friends have good intentions, well-informed, yet alarmed to see the freaks come crawling out and up to me

Begging, "brother, bore that I am bound to be, and ever bleak,

(But) backup, would you? Nevermind, but blink at least."

I've known these poor, these lowly freaks a long time.

My own. Be old, deformed, or weak. I see no freaks.

Get back to the cause of it all without wait or wasted word or wasted thought, without poem to cover everything

In self-satisfied and sweet-syllabic nonsense that a better man would know enveils and flaunts the ever bleak.

Backup like a peasant for the wheel-chaired freak, King Ever-Bleak.

(Our) king, a legless wonder, locomotive seat.

I've known these poor, these lowly freaks a long time.

My own. Be old, deformed, or weak. I see no freaks.

Backup for a moment or a breath at least.

Backup to the moment when it mattered least

And get back to the cause of it all that one prophetic strike unto the bell untolled might shatter everything.