Speak, O capricious ones, and lend a hand
To this sad wretch, who cannot understand
Why he has been abandoned and ignored,
His sad lamentations without reward
As he seeks to relate his paltry tale
(With the fullness of dread that he may fail
And the said rote thing which he may fashion
Devoid of truth and wanting of passion.)
So lift my sad tongue, then, and let me speak
Of those who failed to ascend life’s peak
So like the gods in manner and aspect,
Yet yoked tight to this plane by some defect,
Some dank pock-mark of humanity,
So we spray the gods with profanity
(Though the bray of an *** is what they hear
Not unlike that which I’ve put forth, I fear.)