"This song is not written for the masses" she said, as she yelled hateful names at the poet. She called him an educated idiot, a pretender, a drunk and she heaved and wailed and made faces and cried - the poet just watched and made not to himself that if hell hath no such fury then hell may not be half bad at all. That the woman wanted praise was made perfectly clear, but for the poet's hard efforts there was little endearing, nothing to honour, nothing to praise, just lists of the hours of most of her days filled with children and laundry and husband and wine and complaints, accusations, frustration and whines, and "Dear Woman," thought the poet, "you pitiful thing, with your vulgar delusions, your jealous allusions, your illusions all swollen and grandiose, please, I beg you, shut up!" How much more must I take? How can I respect such a frivolous flake? Now you want me to sing a song for the masses - I'll sing that song, it will speak to the masses, but heed my fair warning that you may not like what appears in the mirror the song for the masses holds up to your taste, and you'll beg me for metaphors to cover its face."
With such thoughts in his head the poet, enthused, put pen to paper and summoned the muse, and begged her abandon his mind for this song. The masses would love it, then forget it, as they do, and there would be no value in dwelling too long on its artistic merit, and as he composed, the woman stood watching, bitterly, expectantly.
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