I'll Die For Your Sins If You Live For mine.

Conscience is no more than the dead speaking to us.

How can the confessor teach/ those who are lost and sick at heart,/ when he himself, among the sinners,/ is worst, and most forsaken?/ It is only a game we play/ with other people's sins./ Besides, everyone knows/ that everyone lies confessing.

One! two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snickersnack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

There are things known
and there are things unknown
and in between are the doors.

Listen, real poetry doesn't say anything; it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through anyone that suits you.