In the final years of Tiberius
not one but four of us got together
to write a cautionary tale, fiction
honestly based on the life of Gaius
everyone believes our character real
forget the fact he was lashed by leather
in separate works based on our diction
now this madman proved well a criminal
as represented by two thieves we feel
left the reader without doubt what went wrong
yet people saw a man in what we wrote
everyone is entitled but the throng
as decades past became one being smote
remotely by charm, our work done, final
sealed and yet open again and again
of course, to interpretation, they read
for centuries, our canonical books.
Take a hike all the way up Binn Ghulbain
if somehow we transcend time with our lies
burn us at the stake for treason instead
every writer wonders how their work looks
relative to others over the years
if we won the lottery, then our spies
under pseudonyms took our work to heart
single-handedly, we laughed at empire
no one knew we had no faith in our art
or that our books would not end up on fire
thank God, so to speak, Jesus, we shed tears.
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