by Michael Ceraolo
But Where fore do you not a shiftier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time?
And fortify your body from decay
With bones more cursed than a rose's crime?
Now stand you on top of the record books,
Though still with several records yet unset.
The virtuous give you dirty looks,
And recoil from your bulked-up counterfeit.
Between the lines you did more than your share
And garnered the praise from keystroke and pen,
By the uses of juices greatly unfair;
No longer esteemed in the eyes of men.
You gave away your self to keep it still;
You should have lived with just your own sweet skill.