Antara sheddad a man of letter,
                       Born to suffer and to write,
For worse or for  better,
                        He thought he was doing right.

Antara found himself in a pickle
                        Over a mighty promise,
His love went, although fickle,
                        From a melody, to a hiss.

Antara voiced his mind,
                       A lustful mouthy dirt,
Mindful he might find
                       Joy in agony and hurt.

Antara wrote for a nickel,
                       Not to expect a dime,
Clever and whimsical
                        With a rhythm and a rhyme.

Antara wrote a little and knew
                        His audience expected a lot,
He went cold on the few
                         And on the rest went hot.

Antara wept and laid down tall,
                      Now out of breath
His dying words call
                      For life and for death.

Antara lived in rumpus
                      No home, no rest, no treat
They named after him a campus
                      A library and a street.

Antara Sheddad lived a helot,
                      Unfed on Obedience,
A heart of a zealot,
                       And an ill-fortune expedience.