They expected perfection,
nothing less. No affection
for poor and silly rhymes
agreeing with the times,
or showing erudition
under a fool’s condition.
A poet should be grave
or know how to behave,
and that’s the very least.
But what man or what beast
could ever be so serious
forgetting all’s mysterious
when every bird can fly
and shit on us from skies
that even now seem blue?
There’s humour in what’s true.
There has to be. If not –
you’re sure you’re not a sot?
O Indivíduo 