Oh, glory to the well and able,
Those who say are just ‘fine’,
Amidst all those texts to table
Dare then to say they are fine.
Oh, irony to lick the arse of fools
Is muted haste for art to dine,
Whether fine or not, these bools
With which we cast ourselves
Shall never cry mercy for fools,
For they see the true innings delve
Before they’re conjured. Glory few
Those able to truly admit their taste,
So given this taste of irony now drew.
I give irony a taste of half my life;
Irony is half the taste of life,
So soon I cannot spell my heart to take,
So bitter I shall free the road from lake,
So naive to plead fine song I cannot spell,
As irony mine art so few and bested peril
Now give freely wintry cold I yond disperse,
To ice mine heart and still tell this line
How fine I am even if such a life were not so fine.