A Poet More Respected Was

In ancient days of Celtic lore
The poet sat but second to
One man — that was the King
Of colors who wore but one more
To lend him its prestige unto
And honor to him bring

In that fair day, in that fair age
One didn’t make a poet mad
Because that poet straight would write
Onto his very next blank page
A parody of you so bad
To all your enemies’ delight

That never more might you regain
The trust of those whose trust you need
To help to get you through the day
Your life thenceforward full of pain
Because you failed to timely heed
His warning that he’d make you pay

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