One day he parks his cloud beneath a bridge,
Across the road, there glistening in the sun
A vagabond who’s scribbling in his head
An epic poem, a tribute to the dead.
The poet tips his crown, hearing him anear –
who shouts: O Master! Please come to my help!
I cannot get the drumming off my head!
It lingers on and driveth me so mad!
Dear son, the master answers in a hush
Do not despair, and even if you must
Scream out loud to that golden distant place
Across the tinselly sea, into her face –
She whose snaky snarls ensnare your brain,
And loading it with feisty hollow forms
Of beauteous lies, painted white with wrath:
So white and pale, her fake virtue shines forth.
She who is robed in luxurious garment
Is but a man, a wicked and stupid
One, if you ask me, but followed by
Many, because of his simple make.
Oh dear! Cried the thinker in despair,
Have I been intercoursing with a man?
Albeit I never offered my body,
For she, or he, is concerned with my soul.