He's a stolen man, with a stolen life
he's a stolen inkwell, and a stolen wife.
He'd steal from the blind,
to aid the sighted
and steal from the clean
to advantage the blighted.
He's stolen words as thoughts
and penned them as his own,
stolen hearts from young maidens
and flew on high - as sick, filthy raven.
Then there's the concepts he'd steal from all the world's thinkers
and bright, shiny daubles he'd steal from the tinkers.
In his path he's left nothing,
and all ahead all he sees
are opportunities for thievery
driving sane men to their knees.
If only able, he'd steal even soul,
but for that he would hang in heaven's own trees.
So he's content to bend minds,
with the words that he's taken
and for those who consume
God, let them not be foresaken!
Mend them up, stitch them well
and for this glutenous thief, may he rot in wordy hell.