What Warlock, Cast this Hex of Song?
And, what Malignant Wizard,
In Poetry's wide-beloved clutch,
Does, yet, grasp my Tongue, for Night-tides, long?
For, the Epic Poet's idle Contemplations,
Upon those long-forgotten Years of Yore,
Have learned me this Earthly Lesson,
And, countless, more:
Poetry, Metered, Mused;
Though, unto Heaven, borne,
Along the Ridges of this Uninspired Rock,
Sleeps close: as would a Tired, brawny Sailor,
With the Cold Whore of Ill Fortune,
And Her Haggard Sister: Impoverished Scorn.