Sylvia Fairley Weak and weary, ever yearning, when the midnight oil is burning; In a rare trochaic meter bygone sorrows you explore. As you sit there ruminating, pondering your woes, I’m stating That I find it nauseating, this obsession with Lenore, For you treat me with derision, eulogise your teenage whore, Sadly, not your only flaw.
Perching on the bust of Pallas, I’m appalled that you’re so callous: ‘Grim, ungainly, ghastly fowl’ — words that cut me to the core, For my mood is bright and cheery, resting in my sculptured eyrie — You portray me gaunt and scary, calumny that I deplore. Character assassination drove me from your chamber door, Burn that poem, I implore!
Mike Morrison Imprimis: Sir, you chose to withhold my given name, whereas fellow-travellers in your ‘tale of one city’ were accorded theirs. Secondly, you cast me as a scoundrel: au contraire, I provided sustenance, accommodation and gainful employ for London’s dispossessed youth. What finer start in life than to learn the ropes from experienced hands? Master Oliver received exemplary guidance in the ways of the world, under team leaders William and Agnes Sikes.
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