I will not attend The Stealers Ball
even if Venus is there with Botticelli's maidens
all in sheer chiffon and the flimsiest of satin and silk
with gilt-edged invitations to dances in scented gardens at dusk

I will not come to the discuss of knaves
though the best tales and most colorful reveals
festooned barbs and tomes in mendacious lyrical myths
are spouted by miscreants and rapscallion in odious delight

I will not imbue Bacchus's finest brews
from opulent vineyards fertilized in blood & sweat
the ripen fruits on stained grapevines in chalky's domain
where moors are furrowed ploughed & scattered for masters tables

I will not be entertained by magical displays
the sleight of minds and the rats in toppers and tails
hood-winkers wares arrayed ingloriously in snow white cloaks
peddling to the sightless wringing communal applause in dungeons

I am not engaged with the whimsical maladroits
stages are theirs as are the drama in Le Cimetière des arlequins
where the walking ghosts in ghastly laments barter fares for Hades
I will not fall or sink neither will I fear for I have no blood on my hands