Who am I that write
This worthless little poem?
Who grips the pen and taps the time,
And does he tap alone?
From where is he issued?
And from whose guilty mirror
Does he imperfectly reflect
On what to love, to fear?
Is he immaculately
Conceived and born to rule
Over his life and will,
Or a puppet and a fool?
I choose to write this,
Without comprehending choice;
I ask these silly questions,
But who answers in my voice?
