I wonder if my work to write in verse,
In measured lines and rhyming to rehearse
My objection to the foolish curse,
Is itself made but to offer praise
For Stupid God to govern all my days
And ragged awkwardness put on my ways.
I know enough to know that I am prone
To folly, laid out as a cobblestone
By hubris, and that I am not alone,
But knowing that I thereby often fall
Neither wisdom nor ease gives at all,
But rather serves to me wholly appall.
Yet still am I brought low, or brought to heel,
Perhaps more easily that I thus reel.
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