The words that drip from the tip of your pen
Do haunt dreams of that which pass through my mind.
Still restless in your grave to plague us men,
Tormenting me to lash out most unkind.
The flavor in your words contain such weight
Such that my tongue is confused with all speech,
And in my mind I suffer sim’lar fate,
And do curse all those who in your name teach.
I struggle endlessly to find escape
from machinations formed in your name;
Such genius I read with my mouth agape
with every letter perfectly in frame.
Yet cursing you is futile exercise
For without, I would not one word devise.