I want to rhyme,
As a snake wants to lie,
With such antiquated works as The Creation of Man,
Somehow, once perceived beautiful, should line bedpans,
If I go out and see a stream,
And hear its babbling in my dreams,
Soon becomes shouting abrasive noise,
And now, with age, I hope to never hear its voice,
The Evil Birds and their hellish songs,
May consul mere children, but me no long’,
For I have matured past such childish delight,
And would shudder to hear a robin in flight,
And no matter how well a work may seem produced,
This outdated refuse I refuse to be seduced.