To my excessively credulous and quixotic friend,
The words of men
When they’re begot
By tongue or pen
In the company of others
For their sisters, friends, and brothers.
The part of man
When spending days
With specious fans
Who will cheer his charlatan affectation
But he bears not the part in isolation.
To my slightly sillily cynical sister, Solitude,
I will follow your counsel fanatically
And list your words—as is my way—romantically,
So thus I heed them not—the sons of a pen—
But leave their fruit rot, as you demand, kind friend.