.
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.

Little dull birdies  .  .  .
Love own songs by mirror pond,
  .  .  .  Graceful swan sails by.


Hello Poetry  .  .  .
Rube lords with simple vainness,                                                        ­­              
Watch him crown himself.


Hello Poetry  .  .  .
Day sullies night, bright vanity
  .  .  .  Rube is a poser.


Hello poetry  .  .  .
Even vain rube's bio drains,
Spews self promotion.


Here is Pantheon  .  .  .
Dabblers, self aggrandizers,
  .  .  .  What a hollow hall.

Little dull birdies  .  .  .
Love own songs by mirror pond,
  .  .  .  Graceful swan sails by.


Hello Poetry  .  .  .
Rube lords with simple vainness,                                                        ­              
Watch him crown himself.


Hello Poetry  .  .  .
Day sullies night, bright vanity
  .  .  .  Rube is a poser.


Hello poetry  .  .  .
Even vain rube's bio drains,
Spews self promotion.


Here is Pantheon  .  .  .
Dabblers, self aggrandizers,
  .  .  .  What a hollow hall.