"Before he'd penned a few last words," he laughed
And sneezed, and bit the inside of his mouth,
The idiot. Again, bite of nitwit.
Rachmaninov noodled little pieces
Of fantasy piano on a disc
Chosen by a mordantly humorous,
Whisky-baritoned disc jockey to spin,
Which set our hero of iron-rich spit
On intramedullary fixations
Of self stem-winding eponymity
Into introspective meditations
About why he'd cared more for words worming
Their ways through gods' metallic conceptions
And under-bark firewood revelations
Than for true bookworms themselves, remorseful.
"Well, we're all anonymous in the end,
Even the gods, even their Kentish scribes,"
He thought, chewing on his nib, the pinwit.