Whether He the quaint savant’s power doth held I now not,
Albeit aetat a thousand stars’ birth He is –
Zuoth I that for reasons to me oblivious
August of a granditude of servants is He held,
And by plastic consonantry e’en more servants to the host addéd are –
Pelf they are, dare I say!
Maugre His diurnal serphic deviltry
I say that deviltry – ’tis forsooth deviltry! –
Mind not this in scintillating shades clad is;
To claim the glore is He suffer’d.
"Grant me the fatlings", gouth He, "the fatter the better!",
And died they of starvation;
They are not slaughtering their fatlings –
They are slaughtering ‘hemselves.
Sith I at time of yester the questions durst ask,
And dare I say this burthen weightful was,
Wrack of His machine – like motion was I naméd,
Tho’ blind and fond the jesters rebuilt
The machine alike – yet whettéd and dight are its edges…