Do measure your meter to meter your thoughts
Try spitting your pleasure to rhyme
Do sprinkle your fodder and sicken the lot
With imbecile light for the blind

A step and a stab in the dark, as its said
Blaspheming, though lacking a spine
Quite nearly offending a muse when its read
Or ignored, cast out as a rind

With no meat inside to find.

In short I suggest that your futile attempts
Remain from your fist or your shouts
For now, your mischanced poetic offense
Was your words shoved back in your mouth

To spare all of us and your "evil" its pride
Keeping gold here from donning your rust
I beg that you pay your God's doctrine its tithe
And drown pen and paper in dust


Penned by my hand on the 20th of Aeguary, in the year 361 AF.