You think that you are so good
No-one asked you
to pass by
With your
vampires and fake blood
You make wolves
howl and babies cry
Like some
moth-eaten Svengali
Carefully, you
coached each Muse
You’re an
embarrassment, a cliché
At Knossus, you
ran the sacred bulls
You float, like
an anaemic flower
In your fortress
of selenium
You are passive,
you have no real power
Your religion is
delirium
Though you
merely reflect the sun’s light
Some are led by
you to dream or fight
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