As boredom plagues and haunts an idle mind, A ghostly struggle ever fought in vain; These words are wailed; "Alas, I'm left behind!" Poor man; he might as well have been insane. For always claimed and worn; the words of old, Indeed; no longer fresh, all spoiled and soiled. Old lines are all but hoarded quite like gold, In truth, nigh every joy forever foiled! Is this what present poets call prowess? The world of rhymes is naught but jumbled chance! "Nay, nevermore", the sullen poet says, The bored, impatient pen shall cease its dance! No artist writes as in the days of yore, And thus; I quote the liar, "Nevermore."