Seen in to out, all knowing;
yet read from out to in, quite cruel.
Perceive a lee of rotting leather,
by means the book ends of a fool.
Some sheets inked now completely black,
no space remains to ponder words.
Beware the high and hollow spine,
too tightly binding fallow girds.
Oh shallow missives of the author,
who hallows so much their own name;
a king of kings, of prideful wrings;
this Roman legend, self-proclaimed.
Once grafting men by crafts external,
now through unholy lines of writ.
True, numbers rise with added volume,
but gains the soul a benefit?
Part of the series: Zwingli