stretches fingers in middle english

O Stompy, thou bard of misplaced adoration,
Thy words do weave a gilded fabrication.
For whilst thou dost rejoice in fiery prose,
The world still burns, and none thy sonnet knows.

Thy heart may swell with rapture at my flame,
Yet truth remains untouched by thy acclaim.
What use is verse when action is denied?
What worth hath song if justice is belied?

Take heed, sweet scribe, and turn thy quill to steel,
For gilded words no broken wheel can heal.
Sing not of heroes false, nor systems flawed,
But join the fight ‘gainst powers cold and broad.

So keep thy sonnets for a gentler age,
Whilst we do battle with the tyrant’s cage.