Every mother looks to her own child,
Hoping to see some sense of Style,
By attire or smell or sound of speech,
Being a mother she’d expect all three.
Every father looks to his own child,
Eager to pass on his sense of Style,
By force or frailty or freedom it be,
Being a father he’d fear all three.
Every child looks to their own parents,
Soaking some sort of sense of Style,
By Witness or Will their World be written,
Being a child they’d complete all three.
Every Trinity looks to The Self,
Where the sound of speech is written for free,
The smell of frailty goes against the Will,
And
The attire is witnessed as a symbol of force,
By Nature in Society,
Being balanced so eternally,
In God’s sense of Style.