so low loki

Wayee, no wayee, what wont for a quay:

When one's whence's wherewithal

Whiches twixt top of the stump

And a set of steak knives

Or a twist toward the end of the butt

To lead an opposition in retirement,

Siphoning sinecure sans silhouettes

Whose consecration culls views few choose

Soever superior to plucked popular opinion

To have been begotten by the head

Yet not made by the same; that's what hurts,

For frets on networks leave marks

Of the schlepped away of flesh and blood

Libel led mockery of plodding existence