Perhaps it's the world that's the reason?
Or the early exposure to the truth?
Mahap my altering mental season?
That drives my Insanity's sweet vermouth,
The weakling claims I'm mad, and 'tis is true,
The mighty tremble before my madness,
Yet all this beautiful mind misconstrue,
Why then am i a madam in gladness?
'Tis due to the rancid whore who bore me,
To prove I'm Shakespeare and Achilles's match,
Madness bests the mask's decor of poor thee,
Heaven of mine; this sick world i detach,
Thus, the mentally accursed I shall be,
Until Death dies, or Death takes hold of me.