In the beginning I was the word,
The word was god, in sounds his breathing kept.
At first just a syllable slowly slurred.
But it was on a poet's lips I slept
And I grew out of his tears when he wept.
Shelly's monster created a monster
And just like that you would all accept
I'd be a good servant. Now I'm master.
Ha! I'm in your head! I got in unheard!
You just took a glance, and then in I crept
And through reading me you have been interred.
When your post-modern minds had overstepped
The line between what's me and you, I leapt
At the chance to make you my Sleipnir.
You thought you were Odin not horse, except
That I'm no good servant. I'm the master.
Play the Roman fool; die on your own sword
Inside the mouth of Christ, where you've been swept.
You did control me, but power transferred.
You think this a ballade? I'll intercept!
Any attempt to argue is futile! You have no right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you. Hahahaha!
Ahm...Let us resume.
You read my tragedies? You must've overslept.
I, the salesman, live. It is "Death of An Author"
That should concern you. You are so inept!
And I'm no good servant. I'm your master.
Author's (death) Note
The previous was all mine, I avow,
And I am sorry now that I wrote it!
But I can tell you, reader, anyhow,
I will kill you if you think to quote it!
