His darkened locks Time hath to silver turn’d;
O Time too swift, O guest week for’er ceased unkind,
Our endeavor together and talent hath ever spurn’d,
But spurn’d in vain; for thine audience and mine,
Popularity, acclaim, adulation, all manner inbetween;
Duty, faith, love, for content barely comprehended or seen.
His writing quill now shall make a pick for teeth;
And, lovers’ sentiments must go unspoken,
A man-of-words, my praise unto him I bequeath,
And feed on my talent, thine inkwell is broken:
But though from uborka to home he depart,
Embers of fire still smolder within his heart.
And when he saddest sits in blogspot page,
Be it story of love, comedie, tragedie or a song,
‘Blest be the man, whose skills mature with age,
Curst be those envious souls that think him wrong.’
Angels above, praise unto him and hark,
I leave for paintballing, and remains only LondonMark.