Byron’s Bane

A poet's poet, Byron's bane,
Discusses math, metaphysics and seeks out fame.
None know what to say
For a poet's poet is here named.
Harold Prufrock, you speak so gay
Of chemistry and Christ and Translations lame.
All his identity, is the pen
And his brilliant verse which none do wend.
A little brilliant but so malapropos, 
He speaks about things which he does not know.
He does his art, and chases the kite
The thunder strikes it, oh what a silly wight.
What fool, what scoundrel, what antichrist
He steals his sermons, he steals his wife.

Me? I know nature and love and not much else.
My themes are what please me, and are heartily felt.
Muses come, muses go... the women come talking of Michelangelo.
Be a baneful dullard lot...
If I win some fame, will I rot?
A small penury from my quill
Will jaunt me, haunt me, be my thrill.
For to eat a little, this is all I can say...
Not to bore you with my songs all day.
A pedant be what a pedant be...
Let me, peacefully, enter into history.
Not with war or gun or germ
Just as a man, whose pension earned.
My homilies are on fortune, ill and good
On heavenly treasures and heavenly food.
No comprehensive philosophy do I here spare,
Just my prying eyes, which I do wear.
Great is the people's unhappy lot
Which ill fortune seems to be their cause.
No love, no place, no fortune, no fame
The peoples only wish to play their games.
They wish to have an end to law...
They wish all were selfish, glib and raw.
A sociopath the peoples wish to be
They wish to cum and boon with glee.
They care not about love or peace
Only that their clit and glans have sting.

So I do say, the world I shun...
I shall let them have it, and they have won.
Just leave me to my solemn task
To write what's true, what's first what's last.