my hands mercifully empty
left to their own lives
joined in idyllic purpose
do not
but through ink and ire
an untimely invocation
that my name should spill
with the slick of spittle
in terminal scrawl to scribe
such false heraldry

leave your shades of fortune to me
and the weather and the smirch
pitch your fights on overtrod turf
more fitting your stature
swineherdry perhaps
fatted on cloying domesticity
so when inspiration next flirts
and your hand moves to action
leave me out and grab a shovel
mucking blessed in Their name

Penned by my hand on the 11th of Scarlatan, in the year 944 AF.