Poem: The Fate of an Intellectual

I poßeß three eyes when I write,

The future see but when I read,

Enslave the maßes with my talk,

But if me you ask, I say is balk.

I thought I kennad right from wrong,

I thought I kennad the one true path,

I see now that my eyes are split,

My mind disdains what's from my lips.

Here I am with my willing slaves,

They love me so, though I call them knaves,

How could they match my intellect;

When for guidance to me he caves?

Here I am, alone at last,

My throne was built of illusion's glaß,

The buffoonish maßes overthrew me fast,

I see too late that I served my claß.