If pride were in chaste fidelity grown
like a rare bud rose in a garden green,
if then like a bard’s purple prose full-blown,   
it reached for the heavens to vent its spleen,
what could be said to bring it down to earth?
What else could be done to help it stay real?
What sweet felicity might show its worth?
What kindness of heart might help it to feel?
If art like a jade imitates this wife,
if Babylon built was Babylon sold,
if like you, art goes under the knife,
deconstructing your tale after it’s told,
then you who understand, live and let live,
and bid me Godspeed, forget and forgive.