Why should I bother?
No one knows
My silent audience plauditless
Along plodding, verb-bodied Grendel
Tossing men verbosely across longhalls
Howling ferociously, returning to my fen.
When I go and poes no more flow from me
Weeping policeman calmed at last
When great heaped cone of my effort turns over to a draining funnel
And all I have done is accounted futile
I walked only a handful miles a million times
I o’ervalued familiar climes, and time’s length.
I hoarded beholdances sent me
Would agreeably scriven them
In some acrimonious season
But life a wire along which fire
Travels, gavelling session to silence
Again my pen rousing silence
Silage crown’d headround all I vomit out
There is but a sad, flour’d pile
Life’s debris, its uphacked bile
No profound intercession
Hinting in dreams Indra’s net
Which Odin’s Norns tend
Tears foregoing.
Alchemisland 
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