sonnet 8.6.13.

Yes hes a gambler quitting while ahead
Yet hes a saver stashing cash iron clad
Yes hes a saint who simply goads you glad
Yet hes a ruler knocking rivals dead
Yes he obeys none hes gut feeling led
Yet he awaits my whinge to mumble mad
Yes he lends his ear when Im sobbing sad
Yet he speaks his mind so intent is read
I know his face is flawed by forehead line
That hed assist the beggars on the street
I know his clothes are wrinkle free and fine
That hed tip large notes where he booked to eat
Ive faith in fancied stuff Im fatalist
And if hes deemed a god he does exist
Chorus fatalist determinist puppet