If we are going to hell in a handcart

Why should I be good?

Should my art be moral, when there is dark

In my imperfect heart?

When I am dead

I will not care what is said

Of me by she

Who must follow me  in due time.

Poets leave clues in rhyme

To their misspent lives

And the literary critic thrives

By interpreting lost lives.

I try to be good.

But when nymphs call

I recall what is good

And yet still fall.