PHILOMEL CANTUS

Isn't this but a paltry bit of honest thought, That my poor soul will once be solemnly sought, By those felic fluttering wings, fragile and fair, Fully bearing the stench of my filthy canine air? Was it not naive and far from prudence to confide In souls forged of disparate mettles, who guide Us through perils that only their hide can defy, And give counsels the poor soul can hardly buy? Was it not a folly reckoning that we'll be fully seen And taken in by those, for whom we've kept keen And diligent watch, but still hold presence dwarfish In their spacious hearts that our banishment wish? Knowing so that we haven't the licence to question, Must we quit or mask ourselves in forced oblivion?

O damned fate! How I wish I had not been born, To be so pestered and irked with whips of scorn. Shut, Shut thy ears to this boisterous world, Lest its cries of revelry will turn you cold. O how I detest those in merriment spurn The truth of life, and are bashful to learn. But they thrive and top this bogus life ladder, And I, cursed I, nag, wail and is torn asunder. O those junky bastards with their reason preach, Wreck faith, imbue fear and ebb as we screech. Daring indeed to search truth and pretend wise, Whilst they keep masked faces forged in lies. To die is not to be as tranquil as we sleep, Or else we would buy it at a price so steep.