.
Flowers so rare and fine,
Missing from this dry world,
Lost, unwatered, unseen, yet
No ones and none despaired,
They then planted their garish
Seed in blot sun, most sodden,
Soppy soils sprayed which fell
On the plainest, most commoner
Grounds, such fertile dirt, wrought,
Then, all who came to view where
But gaggles of proud mediocrity
Who arrived to revel and preen,
Unjust, they remade this earth,
Once lively, to be lame, what
Celebrations they now need
What praises they do crave,
Sadly, they could not know,
A flower for the weeds.
.

.
Sad kings would have themselves
Be known as Bard, tho without music
They clack song, clang along, bleeding
Ears in their sycophantic, bull kingdoms,
The horns, hardly trumpet in the barnyards,
For it is writ, because they have so inscribed,
All must now be audience, and used witness,
The spotted fawn, is all their sorrowed brilliance,
Yet, the tower raven mocks these kings crowing,
How they vainly display their sorry proclamations
On flea broken, loosed, rusted, disused abacus,
Their tabulations of worths non are mounted
In a mirror by their chambers and hands,
But all the knowledge of fallen Rome
Are simply pleasures to dream,
As their dim wordy dreams
Know praises so hollow,
As fools on a throne.