“Emily Bronte was a cunt!” he shouted.
As he babbled to himself; unapologetic.
For he was once a king of kings
His scepter wielded; a broken cane.
A crown obscured by dirt and grime
Shone through the syphilitic pain.
Replaced by a cheap metallic whore,
His stately daguerreotype fell from grace.
Seduced by a swooning maiden’s tale,
The deadly vapors swirled and paced.
“Coleridge and Blake were faggots!” he screamed.
Stumbling down the street; unapologetic.