Now is the winter of our incontinence
Made glorious tragedy by this last 5 days of Debacle;
And all the despairs that lour’d upon our nerves
In the deep bosom of our Depends buried.
Now are our brows bound with sweat and worry;
Our bruised fingers cramped up for keystrokes;
Our panicked cries changed to meager weeping,
Our hopes and dreams to dreadful wails.
Grim-visaged competition hath creased our wrinkled brows;
And now, instead of mounting tea kettle to stove
To praise the souls of feverish novelizations,
We whimper quietly in the pot of our chamber
To the mournful teasing of a loon.
But I, that am well shaped for sportive tricks,
And self-banned from the AW looking-glass;
I, that am steadfastly writing forward, for want of victory’s majesty
To type in the face of a wanton ambling novel;
I, that am curtail’d of this word count proportion,
Cheated of tea by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish’d, sent before The End
Into this breathing novel, scarce half completed,
And that so lamely and unreadable
That dogs laugh at me as I write by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping tea of Debacle,
Have found delight to pass away the word count,
And have managed to spy my glory in the sun
And improve upon my past deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a winner,
To entertain these fair well-written days,
I am determined to prove a victory
And rejoice in the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, storytellings dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set my novel on high, like a king
In fierce devotion to my newfound rage:
And if the Debacle be as true and just
As I am subtle, genuine and learned,
This day should the Debacle highly be held up,
As a prophecy, which shall hold fast
For evermore disciplined the writer shall be.
Write, thoughts, down to The End: here
Castle Debacle comes.