Achilles, Or Lord Byron

Unworthy man of worldly means,
born unto Grecian indulgence,
a soul of petty Iliad scenes
and Agamemnon’s insolence.
You mark and mock from a tower
wherein roost carrion birds
gleeful at the grim graveyard hour,
aiming your feathered arrow words.
You’re the worm in seprulchal growth
bloated on the decay and reek
of men too soon dead, or to quoth:
“[he] was kill’d off by one critique.”
You speak as Achilles in Troy
while Hector lay in breathless sleep…
But enough! Go bugger your boy,
Patroclus, you pederast creep.

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