Poetic shackles wont that I be,
If I fail to write about I,
It might force breath out my throat,
In such a rambunctious deliquency.

So its none but lovely I,
An admirable brown skin guy,
That bears a mesmerizing eyes,
A star lying on Africa's globe.

Its I,
A lovely shiny little star,
That hopes to pass the sky,
And shine incredibly up there.

Its I, the spectacular guy,
Who holds poetry as a like,
And adores literatures bike,
Wishing on it to one day ride.

Its I, who would ride,
Literatures silvern bike,
Down to poetrys city,
And exclaim it as my like.

Thats lovely I,
The hunter in poetrys city,
That yearns for it golden crown,
Of which literary folks had worn.

Its I,
Who would love to die,
In poetrys golden castle,
And be buried in its sincere tomb.

Its I,
Would be I,
Must be I,
Wallowing in poetrys glory.