[Bards] Never try to out-angst a Welshman:

[peterschorn at pdq.net]

	My soul is black 

	Black with despair 

	Black as the formerly-green woods of Cynan Vale 

	For the clangor of commerce 

	And the soot of ill-will 

	And the clear-cutting and subsequent erosion of unreturned (why will
no one return them?) e-mails 

	Have driven from my soul the green leaves of hope 

	Driven from it the chirruping songbirds of joy 

	Driven from it the furry little woodland creatures with big brown
eyes, of compassion. 

	The world has gone strange to me. 

	Lo, it understandeth me not 

	Understandeth not the sensiteve poet 

	Understandeth not the cultured Welshman 

	For it thinketh an Eisteddfod is an agricultural implement 

	It holdeth that Llwyarch Hen is something like a Rhode Island Red. 

	The world is strange 

	People are strange 

	When you're a stranger 

	Faces look ugly 

	When you're alone. 

	Yes, that's Welsh. 

	Or at least it should be 

	If the world were as it should be 

	Or as it should have been 

	But never was. 

	But it is not, wasn't, and never will be. 

	Wherefore I sing: 

	Woe, me. 

	Woe, you. 

	Woe, they. 

	Woe, hossie.

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