Oh gawd the horror. Can you imagine if bellgab came back? Somebody would be bound to look up my poem "The Ballad of Heater Wad", 150 lines in flawless iambic pentameter, ABAB, with a couplet at the end, an extended conceit comparing Heather to Ganymede the cup-bearer, who got to sit on Art-Zeus's throne. It wasn't even ballad meter but the title was so good I kind of fudged it, I am surprised Shreddie didn't seize upon it to bash me about the ears. One cringe-worthy line in particular haunts me to this day, "My dreams lie all about like broken eggs" ugh how nauseating, eggs? It's enough to turn the stomach. I think it rhymed with "But when I sipped the cup had reached the dregs" or something equally horrible and obvious.
