With thanks to Pessoa

Gods, I have left behind your little Dames.
There are far better ways the Word can fix
The Weird. I fart against your murderous games.
You are pre-me now, past as a prefix.

Am I an olden man? I hew to craft
Such lines as simply do not mean a thing
Without that swing. No sleep in cenotaphs.
Give me the wine Hafiz and Horace sing.

I'll not forget all that is ours and mine.
I shall go forth because I will not budge.
I watch the brine-dark sea and drink of wine
Knowing the muck and murk that brave feet trudge,

Yet glad to be alive. No gods I see
But Homer's stars on the Aegean sea.

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