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Don John

In equity's heart, a storm takes flight,

Moaning a requiem through the night,

A tempest's lament, solemn bygone,

A chorus of anguish for one named John.


He howls with the winds, a ghostly wail,

Caught in the vortex of an untamed gale,

Through lightning's flash and thunder's roar,

His spirit tormented, forevermore.


Mugshot copied to phones will forever last,

The tale of a man whose die was cast,

In the whirlwind of life's tempestuous sea,

He found himself chained, no longer free.


In the midst of nature's fierce plea,

His essence shot at a wobbly knee,

A symphony of elements, a haunting embrace,

A soul in turmoil, lost without grace.


The storm and he, entwined in the dark,

A dance of shadows, an eternal spark,

Witnessed by stars that silently weep,

As the night's secrets they vigilantly keep.


In justice where storm winds blow,

His howl persists, an eternal echo,

Mugshot and storm, intertwined they remain,

A testament to struggles, to crime and pain.


So let the tempest moan its lament,

A requiem for him, a life's descent,

In storm's embrace, his spirit's found,

A howling presence, forever bound.


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