Caught red-handed,
You reach for the first thing
Your grubby metacarpus can find,
Be it a sabre or quill.

You ****** and parry away
In your journal,
All in the hopes you might
Besmirch me,
And strike it rich
At the same time.

But like Dido, Queen of Carthage,
Your bags of gold
Contain only sand.

This is your hapless undoing,
Mr. Hamilton,
Despicably so.
Don't use me as a crutch,
Fall on your own sword!

Talk about a fair amount
Of revisionist's history,
But we'll save that for
Another day...

Suffice to say:
History is in the eyes of the beholder.

Crimson God of love, tanning in the pale Moonlight, made my mind split asunder, when you and I locked eyes.

Doomed was I just then, writing love letters hastily with my pen, surrendering to the divinity whose lips tasted like the wine of ancient rome, and whose flowered ribcage became my very home.