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.