Sunday, September 23, 2018

20180923.0430

I look out on the world and feel despair;
The Stupid God does spread, and few do care,
And of them, fewer still will think to dare
To work against the spread--and I’m not one.
I end before I even have begun
To weave a net to catch it, or to have spun
A thread from which a rope might yet be made
To make a net; I see how it is frayed
Before I start, and I am grown afraid
That, should I cast a net of little worth--
Of value, I hold my works in a dearth--
I should be quickly brought hard down to earth,
Where I have beaten been too oft before;
I think not I could endure it much more.

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