Now once again, the Stupid God complains,
Lifts its voice again in old refrains
Echoing from mountains across plains:
What is is really not, or, if it be
Such that few can say they do not see
It is, that it instead should merit glee,
And not the censure that the wise bestow.
Amid discordant sounds in pitch below
What easily is heard, choruses go
That many sing again in awkward guise,
Giving voice again to oft-told lies
That many take as truth--to no surprise
If to too much regret and to address
That never does suffice to purge the cess.
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