More short poems

                            I know you think ill of me 
                       My little acts does make thee sick
                            But I know my every thrust
                   Is all designed for you to loathe me more

Where to, Where we go?
The bridge to see a wayward fish.
She swims I hear on Sunday streams 
To worship the God who did send His Son.

                                                  I have heard of thee             
                                                      But Now I see.
                                                  Oh I see. Oh I see!
                                                And glad I did believe.



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