I often think about the passing days
And how I spend them, all the many ways
In which I waste my time by seeking praise
Instead of doing what deserves the laud.
In doing so, I serve the Stupid God,
And that one's power needs no further prod,
Nor yet the wrinkled citrus avatar
Thereof that casts Stupid God's influ'nce far
And hot and churning gassy as a star
Example offers of praise-seeking's fault.
But still, I find I'm unable to halt
The search for commendation. By default,
Innate or trained I would not care to guess,
I need more said of me in praise, not less.