• The words of the ages,
    Behind us it's true,
    Do still guide us,
    As all great books do.
    The alley of fiction,
    Is my home indeed,
    And I scorn those, the buyers, who look on with greed.
    For my store of wordsmith's,
    Fine crafts and ideas,
    Is my most favorite,
    Place to spend the years.
    Minus the fine-folk,
    Who walk through the door,
    They see my shoppe,
    Just as a store...
    They buy these words,
    With paper-print cash,
    And motion for me, as if I was trash...
    I'm useless you see,
    For I hate them all,
    The source of my revenue,
    Oh, god all their gall.
    Balancing narcissism,
    On top of greed,
    Must be a feat,
    A very large one indeed...
    Now if you feel similar,
    Favoring pages,
    Rather then 'fine-folk',
    Then come spend your wages...
    Pick up an Edger Allen, or maybe a Twain,
    And I shall promise you, you won't feel the pain.
    Reality's a burden,
    We all know it's true,
    So get lost in pages,
    And finish with this nonsense of having to deal with people...