Oh Dickinson, do guide my pen

Across the paper coarse,

I’ll join your fame in time my friend

By running natures course.

 

I’ll scrawl the words inside my head

I’ll shout and say it hoarse,

They’ll rumble like the seismic threads

Beneath a carriaged horse.

 

For when engaged in rhyming ends

You lead the bravest corps,

As exaltation finds you when

You’re deemed to lay a corpse.

 

Writing bountifully, when rich reward

Was not to clearly see,

Gives courage to us mortal men

Like pink on evening sea.

 

Sic transit gloria mundi

How doth the busy bee?

If worldly glory comes to pass

Do pass it on to me.