T’is bitter fruit to eat the harvest of one’s own soul,
for the nature of small men is the world’s ghoul.
A new constellation that might be,
to polish lines and verse to dull
in a profusion of inanity.
Would I could tow the line
and versify so sublime, divine,
to gorge on the lordly fare
and quaff the Presidents wine.
To learn to write to make a sale
towards rhyme I would surely rail
and hence and thence disperse my poverty
into a tome of a lifeless gale.