Oh, Masters of the written word!

who claim poor Yorick being for­got­ten
and dusted verse of dead Shake­speare!
The rusted sword that cuts your tongue!
The dirt of blab­ber fill­ing shal­low
The depth of your pro­found thought!

You scream I am Witch of dark­ened ages!
And make the fire with the pages
That praises me! You bare sages!
Me! Who drank old gin with drunken Poe?
Who filled the skull with blood of wine
for Byron play­ing in his cas­tle?
Invited to soirees and rested on clover
Bed with Steven­son observ­ing ‘’… child, far, far away,
And in another gar­den, play…’’ ?

I am con­demned to burn in flames
Sus­tained by you with flap­ping pages
of poems read as short­ened prose!
The mas­ter­pieces of new ages
Stored in the dusted schools of yours!
The instru­ments of inqui­si­tion to kill me more~!

I am The Rhyme!
I will sur­vive the burn­ing blaze
Of foolest pages yet reced­ing!
The light of old will lit they way
To newest king­dom
Of my reign!
And not sus­tained thy flames will wane!