The rosy fingered dawn's a metaphor
For human culture in my psychic pores,
And all that poetry's a stand-in for
From Homer's sacred wine dark shores.

For all the world's a stage, a tragedy,
A mental liquor, deep inside of me
With full Shakespearean majesty,
As long as I have art and poetry.

And thus when life, so petty and uncouth
Haunts me; it's Keat's purple stained mouth
That soothes me with its mystic truth,
Consolation from the mythic South.

Life sucks. The only tonic I can find:
The magic and the meaning in my mind.