Complaint of the Unknown Traditional Poet

They take their liberties, those people free
Of shame who laugh at rules, who eat my wine
And drink my cheese. Their grace offends.
If it is easy it is sleazy…not fine.
I follow the rules, and some fine day soon
I will be apotheosized, and rais’d above
The common herd which now tramples me
Crown’d will I be with laurel I will have their love.
It is me and not they the first born son
I am singular but they are plural
I am the bald Soprano…the chosen one
I shall be on some sort of mural.
But now I am forc’d to run with the bulls
Lest I be trampled in these dessicate hills.


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