The Byronic Man

As lonely as a poet on the walls of Jericho,
or the moon without the comfort of the stars.
I am loathe to know it that a man without a soul
is nothing but a spilt canopic jar.

I proved it, improved it,
drove a sonnet right through it.
And in this state of bliss
Evil kissed with wet lips
pen-filled fingertips.

Which drew me for through me,
Illuminati usually pissed.
But with words of some hurt worth I
threw a party that extended God's list.

Exciting new flames that
my fame would claim for me,
reciting back the almanac
of travesties.

They call me bad, mad Caliban
with manners dangerous to know.
A passing fad taught in all debauch,
in excess and in canto.

Grown wild this childe,
whole harems defiled.
Faustina's and Mina's,
Lady Libertine and her
sisters between her.

What spread of lies
arise when lovers die,
which circle of Hell is
mine when I arrive?

They call me bad, mad Caliban
with manners dangerous to know.
A passing fad taught in all debauch,
crow against the virgin snow.

Grown colder, my shoulder
like a boulder beside her.
And bolder not wiser, my dark
seed took up root inside her.

That mouldered, where older,
beddings would hold a passionate sigh.
But laudanum and soda, Lord Numb Coda
merited a forest of inherited spite.

Fleeing grief for foreign maps,
I still played vampire aristocrat,
unloading my gun in hot promiscuous laps.

Then shooting swans in a gondola,
I tripped my foot on a fallen star and there's
nothing like a mouthful of Venetian tar
to let you know just who you fucking are!

The patron saint of heartache!
You can't see my world is falling,
the world is falling down.

The patron saint of heartache!
Can't see the world is falling,
my world is falling down.

Ever after can they hear my laughter?
The patron saint of heartache!
Never craft a better bed of disaster!
The patron saint of heartache!

They call me bad, mad Caliban
with manners dangerous to know.
A passing fad taught in all debauch,
in excess and in canto.

They call me bad, mad Caliban
with manners dangerous to know.
A passing fad Where upon I tell them
to go fuck their mothers.

As so on my grave!