Galloped for the last lap,
quiveringly, with icy soul.
Knowing your fiendish gambit,
I saw your skew-look and snook,
Fighting with my own sciamachy now.
You can’t put manacle on the pinnacle
of my own will power.
Though I’m the most defeatist among the defeated.
Jot over the golden pot
Soon I’ll come as victor.
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