Alas, the feeling has kept me ill
That mocking passion within me still.
For I know well, I am shorn of my pride
And no manner in life shall provide.

How I loathe the poets
In a time before!
And the use of language
Which exists no more!

Try-how I try!
To comprehend the subtle wording
And the use of literature today
From yesterday converting!

And even the pen! A simple pen!
Mocks me with its cruel indifference
And the blank page, which words appear
Though my mind, shows interference!

Critics all! And I am mine!
How I long to make a piece so fine!
Alas the feeling since has left me ill
That mocking passion within me stills!