In measure bold, and way ahead of time,
From childish lips the young lad issues rhyme;
A verse, where painted with a fright'ning skill
Is ugsomeness enough to make one ill.
Parnassus echoes with the dismal sound,
And arty sisters, fearful, go to ground.
But Hermes (he who holds the snaky staff),
Does wryly smirk, and then does start to laugh,
Quoth he, "This tortured song, tho' short on style,
Does bring my godly chops to mirthful smile,
And tho' the tale be gruesome, foul and wrong,
Mayhap this crazy, queasy kind of song,
A sponsor from th'Elysian fields will find
Who's strong of stomach, and is broad of mind.
Alack! No wordsmiths wish their hard-won fame,
Be turn'd to bitt'rest infamy and shame:
The minstrels, bards and playwrights do not queue
To gladly have renown flush'd down the loo.
The godly messenger does sling his hook
And leave the stuck-up wordsmiths to their books:
For Hades beckons as a likely source,
Of souls more sordid, vile and coarse.
The quest is easy, as is soon reveal'd
An English Lord upon a danksome field:
With twenty whores around him in a knot,
He greets the messenger with pistol shot.
"Lord Byron! Yes! Of course! The very man!
To patronise the youthful poet Dan!"
The god with chuckle sees his supine prize,
Debauched as usual, red and bleary-eyed.
(But just in case his Lordship might say "no",
He gets him pissed and high on special "snow").
This tale does aim to show in pithy line,
How are the fates of man and god entwined,
And how, by guile and want of sobriety,
'Twas possible to have a Byron Society.