Monst'rous mass, morose malaise
Begging at my door he stays
Searching for an end of days
He scrapes and screams
"Come forth, weak man, and end this haze!

"For I have had enough of you,
Your grotesque life, much ado!
Kill me now you sow, you sod
For I no longer am your God.
I kneel before your blackened door
Awaiting bad Belial, boor."

With such cry yearn'd Yah once more
For his friend, the fallen boor.
Lord ashiver, 'fore serf, no War.

Keats in chatter once tempted fate
As Gods of yore he did berate
For letting New claim thronéd Old.
All almighty spoke on then
And writer ready Death did scold.