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...