I am a distinguished dame,
Florence Farthingale is my name
I read William Blake’s poetry,
penned during the 19th century.
I adored Blakean stories and lore,
with rich similes and metaphors.
But his book on the Marriage of Heaven and Hell,
made my fury surge and swell.
For instance, in his Memorable Fancy,
He throws the angel a shameful phantasy.
While Willie hears music by the moon,
The Angel is stuck with apes and baboons.
Grinning and plucking in their chains,
They even devoured their rotting remains.
His other poems also poked me up.
Choked up, I fervently spoke up:
How could Blake’s words be noble and wise,
while he sees the Angels’ rites as lies
and Nude Ladies as the jammiest Bits of Jam,
or as Brainless Bits of ham or clam?
He writes ugly Old Maids like me are Prudence.
This Bard bubbles up my patience, hence,
I wrote my own batty fang,
where the Devil welcomed Blake with a bang.
While Blake looked plagued and haunted,
the tipsy devil playfully taunted:
Your septic soul sours to the next level,
by singing your praise to the Devil.
May you enjoy my evil energy,
for now, and all of Eternity.
‘’Oh no Devil, I did not mean what I said
My heart was weighed down by lead
I feel so tired of snuffing the fire
of my delight and ire,
God will condemn my lust
He will see me unjust, and I will lose his trust
He will turn my heart to wood,
and I will writhe in hot Hell for good’’,
Listen to me, you stuttering Bard
my lines will hit you strong and hard
The road of excess leads to Wisdom,
The Goat's greed is God's kingdom
The Lord's advice is like lousy lice
As prudence is a vapid vice
But you Blake touted my truth
You harbour my hellish hunger of Youth
‘’But I must ride God’s Horse of instruction,
to avoid desire and destruction.
The Lion’s wrath will make me impure and unwise.
Disobedience will bring my demise’’
You ought not whinge and whine,
as you will be my fine Caprine.
You can enjoy glorious greed
and from Christ's chains you are freed
Blake’s voice becomes craggier,
and his hair turns coarse and shaggier.
Hooves replace Blake’s feet and daddles
he sprouts a tail, beard, and wattles.
His head gets crowned with satanic horns,
like a laurel wreath with brambles and thorns.
He’s now a Goat with a gormless face,
always last to win the race.
He glumly grazes tasteless grass,
dry as dirt and brown as brass.
Once you were a boastful Bard,
who sang for Satan under the stars,
but now you are a silly willie Goat,
and how gleefully I gloat.