I Am Poet

Behold me, oh ignorant masses to whom my Silver Pen address,
I come before ye a simple servant of alliteration.
I am but of humble means, and if it should be made plausible
My insignificantly infinite wit may impart upon thee the most meager
Scrap of my modest, scholar’s intellect, then count thyself fortunate.

Now sit thyself before me as I endear upon you the wonders
Of this, our most divine Creator’s truest intent.
But lo, do not assume that I shall convey this upon ye forthright,
For what is knowledge without effort? You shall read my graceful
Exposition of Existentialist musings, bemused by my inconsequentially
Immeasurable wit and inferiorly superior dialect as I account to you
The under appreciated values of our classic art.
So now, bend thy ear to me as I vaguely expunge upon the master works’
Referencing in indistinctly finer expletives than you can ever hope
To comprehend. For now, refer will I in vaguest sense, the third line of the
Second stanza in the fifth act of Dante’s Odyssey to Lost Paradise,
In which, you all must be familiar with.
And if by chance you do not know of what I refer, to you I say, grow smarter.
I am but the instrument; the tool by which He who is most Divine
Has graced upon me resources by which to comprehend this learned knowledge
And expel unto you a wit as dry as my free flowing quill.

Beseech me you shall, to give you meaning to my work, the hidden truth
By which you all but live and breathe.
But press a rose to Eros’ breast and he too will be pricked by thorns and
Bleed as brightly as Shylock.
So do not call to me and ask for what I meant,
I know not, and leave it to thee to tell me what meaning my words have to you.