il penseroso and l'allegro: inverted and dubbed

Hence sordid bullshit, leave me the fuck alone,

with my milton and my dickinson

with my browning and my keats

with my quillless pen and my yeats—nothing

rhymes anymore, yet it is possible to master

to make it neat, when allroundyou is the disaster

of soul on soul gone bad, rotten or rotting

from the edges on in. Let me suffer

friendless and forlorn, let me toil and toll

that bell for me alone, I don't need any

charity. I only need and empty space to rest in.

Hence seriousness and melancholy

who couldn't use a little late in the millennium folly

at this latedateandtime—I've been furrowing my brow

too long now, I need a little rap a little weed any song

to relieve me of this form this world where men just fucking sit and moan

admit you are insignificant (magnificant) and all alone

and move on, young man, cause you're a drag

to be around, despite your quaint acerbic wit, you lag

behind the times, go pump someiron or somecunt,

there is still honey to be tasted, and look at you, you've already wasted

a lot (two words) of your heavenly earthly time. I'll not waste mine.

I'll yet learn to (fuck and) sing.