Meadow of Doom

Give me my praise
I shall not be wanted

Humble is praise in the valley
where the lambs are abundant; I do
not need to want for chops, and
I’d have no need for stewing.

Give me my paprika, the
shepherdess is at the barbecue

My staff, they comfort me not, for
an office gives me my unjust humor;

though cross, I’d let them
humor me well and lead me

to cross the river Styx into Egypt
and find my sticks, no carrots

do not fail me now, for

I must be at a gate of Heaven
to explain my case splayed out
in the verbosity of the century, yea
I come to praise Caesar and myself in kind

Tell me Caesar is there
and I am ubiquitous in
the quadrillion words of praise.