Is there one poet
Left in the world, anywhere,
In any language,
I could read for nourishment?
Is there one makar
Not a crusader
Of one kind or another,
Nor a mere minstrel with words,
Nor a priest self-confessing,
Nor too dull to break a lance
In tournaments of ideas?
I’d flyte them all if I could,
If I could find anyone
Left who knew what flyting meant.
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