I shall be thine Atlas, thine scapegoat with a shoulder
That I with weary back might take position as the holder
Of all the items you have boiling up within thee; take them out!
Instead of boiling up, project them unto me and thusly shout:
"Thou art truly a disgrace, a mere construction of a lie
You exist as foul temptation, but you tempt no more, for I
I have gained more pressing matters; I have larger game to shoot
To me, thou art but humble grass smear'd 'neath the footman's boot
And I've become an heiress, or a prince, perhaps, a king!
I've left behind the people who wish to control my everything
My every waking moment is now in my control
You disapprove? Excuse me, but I never asked thee for a poll!"
I shall be thine Atlas, and I'll gladly take your spite
I would also take thine fists, if thou so wish'd to fight
But ne'er in my life would I, lift fist nor finger to you
That's one thing that I wouldn't, nay, couldn't ever do