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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.
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