Hello gentle readers,

It has recently come to my attention that my poetry is not entirely
appreciate by certain people! As you can imagine, this makes me terribly
sad, and to express my misery and angst, I have written an ode - or a
fugue, if you will, and humbly submit it:

Once upon an evening dreary, whilst I sat there, bored and weary,
A poem came upon my mind, a happy song, a jolly rhyme,
A poem came into my head, so good it was, it needed said,
And rushed did I across the floor, and down the hall and out the door,
"Come hear this rhyme!" I called to all, to all I called from out the
door,
Little did I know afore, afore the terrible things I saw,
That making rhymes and songs and verse I would do now, never more.

With speed they came across the walkway, whilst I called them loud and
noisy,
Called them from my streetway door, calling with a heart of joy,
Waiting for their happy faces, wishing them to hurry thier paces,
So I could this poem recite them, once in my house I had invited them,
"Hear, my friends," I quick alighted, "This rhyme of mine," - I was
excited!
Excited that they'd hear my work, excited much I will admit it,
But such was I then, young and stupid, and now I write - never more.

But woe on me! I was not received, my public I did not much please,
My public whom I most adore, those listening there from by the door,
Those listening there with bated breath, whom listened quietly to my
verse,
My verse which them had not impressed, which surprised me I will
confess,
"Not good are you!" They shouted loudly, and this is quoted rather
mildly,
Other words made some blush wildly, and all the while I stood in my
door,
Shocked and awed at this the cause of me, writing, never more.

My torment though was far from over, I had to duck and run for cover,
For cover from the fruit and stones that flew and hit me, which I
bemoaned,
And ran through streets and markets hostile, and ran afeared and all the
while,
Some ghastly mob of lit'ry critics, with faces red and livers cholic,
Chased me up and down my home, Hashan, led by one I will not name,
But has a label, short and sweety, ends in "ana", starts with "Kopri",
It was she who chased me, till legs were saw, and made me write - never
more.

And so my friends I write this ode, from safety in a temporary abode,
In Delos where I hide away, and suffer through my tortuous pain,
Clearly I am not respected, my rhymes and verses have been protested,
Protested by those artless persons, people lacking taste and reason,
They say my poems do not rhyme! Well that, say I, is simply lies!
But know do I of stubborn masses, their minds are stuck down to their
core,
And this, dear readers, is all my lore, and why I write, never more,
never more.

Thank you.

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Ero, in the year 393 AF.