By my black soul, I swear the hurt to you
My defiant flaunt inflicted boasts no
Honoured place in my conceit. It is low
In stature set as every nail knew
To be driven by my self-****** heart through
Submissive feet. You famed your finest blow
As even with a God's in forward flow
To prove Marsyas equal in the view
Of common creatures telling between two
Who handsomely played music only so
The other would be tortured by his foe
With envied songs of ones aesthetic due,                                                             ­
So I inverted melodies I know
A higher satyr cannot aspire to.