Shrouded in mystery, confined to my head —
Sometimes I think I’d be better off dead.
In here the inhabitants haven’t enough room —
They quibble and quarrel and spread so much gloom.

Do any of them have more of the native right—
To occupy my mind, let alone my sight?
There are those, the chosen ones, who grow here more strong,
Their rightful cause at great length fighting the wrong.

And every thoughtless idea the others bare,
They are my enemies but they are every where.
Thus worn and weakened and filled with ill content,
Why must I submit me to this internal government?

Impoverished and deprived of all my command,
Their thoughts double as mine lose their stand.
What they are is not real - not flesh and blood,
They’re a disgrace to everything and burnt like the wood.

If I died would not these heathens go up in flame?
They are priests of all religions, are they not all the same?
Of whatsoever descent from their godhead be,
Just mud and stone or other worthless pedigree.

In my defense my thoughts are always bold,
As if they were written of the purest gold.
But these Rabbis are my worst of enemies,
They are not honest men and they are not at all wise.

For if it 'twas their duty and like the learned think,
They’d espouse my own thoughts of which they eat and they drink.
From hence began this plot of my demise as if I were cursed,
Their bad intensifies in me – am I representing their worst?