𝕋𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖. 𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕣𝕥𝕪 𝕆𝕟𝕖. 𝕋𝕨𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕪 𝕆𝕟𝕖.

Oh, my Spiritual King,

I cannot wait until the day they hear you sing,

Fascinated by none of the material things,

Abundant in all my beliefs and dreams,

Non reactive, I’ve mastered my scream,

In fear of none of your immortal flings.

Like coffee with no cream,

Aware I am not everybody’s “thing”,

So away, I quickly swing,

Worry no more of the inner g I bring,

I guess you’re still too blinded by my bling.

Why do you not see a reflection King?

Your identity to the past,

Will continue to cast,

All the darkness to come to light,

By me, Beloved allows nothing to past.

So, I raise my glass in love,

Asking all my angels above,

To continue to shove,

Their fist full of love,

In your face.

Here is to Moore.