I do not care for Morrissey but Johnny Marr's ok

In the beginning was the Word of God. That’s me. Like you, I had a job to do. By me all things were made, and without me Was nothing that was made. The universe Was my life’s work, the empire that I served. My father’s will for Mankind was my law. One act of disobedience was enough To sentence every one of you to death. I did my job, and did it thoroughly: The hands that made the stars built every tomb. They sculpted tumors, planted neat rows Of plagues in human lungs and skin and guts, Conducted rousing symphonies of storms, Earthquakes, tsunamis, fires, and wrote In stone: if you survive all this, the time itself Will kill you. Yet this law, My Father’s Law, No - our law, I share blame for it - forbade The dead to die. Infinities of pain, We gave as punishments for finite crimes. My father made me judge, and I looked down On human beings. I saw their sinfulness And built sparse Heaven and a crowded Hell. I thought this law was justice ‘til the day I learned what it is like to be condemned.

Tumblr's own Regexkind's

Methods Procrustean

Meter will fit

Century's paced out by

Dactylomania

Bounding with energy

Trailing in wit

Higgledy-piggledy

Seeking finality

Writing this poem, my

Race is now run

Using a reckoning

Arithmometrical

Meming torrential is

Miniver Cheevy was

Growing cadaverous

Child of disdain

Life in this period

Contemporaneous

Rendered him lachrymose

Being a pain

Don-no-Quixote-o

Cheevy Idealist,

Loved so his swords with a

Passionate flame

Riding a bronco he'd

Uncompromisingly

Fly to the battles to

Glory proclaim.

Glory-be-deedle-dee

Gloomy was Miniver

Mirrors would render him

Speechless with rage

Besides his heros he

Incontrovertibly

Measured far short of their

Camelot days

What's-a-name, what's-a-name,

Cheevy the Tardy-born

Saw that Romantic and

Precious was dead

Born as a Medici

Machiavellian—!

Surely for being one

Blood he'd've shed

Hollister-schmollister,

Grumbling Miniver

Khakis despised and if

Iron he'd worn,

Trust in me, certainly,

Hyperexcitably,

Vows he would swear it was

Good to be born.

Avarice-schmaverice,

Miserly Miniver,

Claimed to be endlessly

Weary of gold

Others may find this has

Dubitability—

Lacking for coins made his

Winters so cold.

Coughity-Coughity

Muddled was Miniver,

Drinking and drinking his

Lifetime away

Audience, mark well its

Applicability

Miniver teaches us

Higgledy piggledy, snowmelt is patchily greening the fields, and the trees are in bud.

Earth is remade by the change of the seasons. The rivers return to the riverbeds' mud.

Spirits of nature come all unapparelled and dance unabashedly, joyous at play.

Hope for no permanence: nonsempiternally, years, like the moment, are rushing away.

After the frost is the warmth of the spring, but it's trampled by summer, as greenery wilts—

slain in its turn by the heliocyclical bountiful autumn, then winter's white quilts.

All that is lost to the seasons' revolving, though, moon after moon in their time will restore;

we, when we die, like the mythocanonical heroes and kings, will be dust evermore.

No one can say if the gods will capriciously grant us the morrow, and maybe they won't.

All that you give to your heart, all you love, will be lost to your heirs on the day that they don't.

Once you are gone and your shadow is facing its judgement in death and the sentence is passed,

never, my friend, will your family, eloquence, piety, anything, save you at last.

next to a shattered face, frowning with wrinkled lip, cold command sneering through centuries past.

Passions read well by its sculptor (but mocking) still stamped for all time upon those lifeless things.

And on the pedestal these few words still appear: "I, Ozymandias, am King of Kings!"

"Look about on my works! Despair now, Mighty ones!" Nothing at all remains round the decay.

Higgedly piggedly,

man from antiquity

travelling here, to my

own native land,

Telling of sculpture, of

legs in a desert both

mammoth and torsoless.

There on the sand:

Partially buried, a

Shattered stone visage, whose

Frowning expression and

Sneer of command

Tell that their sculptor once

Read well the passions that

Now outlive ruler and

chiseling hand.

There on the pedestal:

"I, Ozymandias,

hereby declare myself

lord of all things:

Look all around at my

epic accomplishments;

gaze in despair, ye who

fain would be king!"

Higgedly piggedly

Next to this mountainous

wreck of an emperor,

nothing remains

Boundlessly, barely, and

desolatorily,

sand stretches outward in

next to a shattered face, frowning with wrinkled lip, cold command sneering through centuries past.

Passions read well by its sculptor (but mocking) still stamped for all time upon those lifeless things.

And on the pedestal these few words still appear: "I, Ozymandias, am King of Kings!"

"Look about on my works! Despair now, Mighty ones!" Nothing at all remains round the decay.

Higgedly piggedly,

man from antiquity

travelling here, to my

own native land,

Telling of sculpture, of

legs in a desert both

mammoth and torsoless.

There on the sand:

Partially buried, a

Shattered stone visage, whose

Frowning expression and

Sneer of command

Tell that their sculptor once

Read well the passions that

Now outlive ruler and

chiseling hand.

There on the pedestal:

"I, Ozymandias,

hereby declare myself

lord of all things:

Look all around at my

epic accomplishments;

gaze in despair, ye who

fain would be king!"

Higgedly piggedly

Next to this mountainous

wreck of an emperor,

nothing remains

Boundlessly, barely, and

desolatorily,

sand stretches outward in

things fall apart and there’s anarchy everywhere; falcons fly freely and can’t be compelled.

Dimming the tide there is blood in the water and everywhere customs of innocence drowned.

Held by the worst is a fervent intensity; lacking conviction the best run aground.

Surely there must be some kind of apocalypse; surely epiphany must be at hand!

Visions unbidden from Spiritus Mundi of something awakening out on the sand:

Head of a man with a leonine frame and a pitiless gaze that’s as blank as the sun;

sleep became nightmare by passage of centuries long before eons of slumber were done.

Higgledy piggledy, beast of antiquity, imminent, just as the prophecies warn,

things fall apart and there’s anarchy everywhere; falcons fly freely and can’t be compelled.

Dimming the tide there is blood in the water and everywhere customs of innocence drowned.

Held by the worst is a fervent intensity; lacking conviction the best run aground.

Surely there must be some kind of apocalypse; surely epiphany must be at hand!

Visions unbidden from Spiritus Mundi of something awakening out on the sand:

Head of a man with a leonine frame and a pitiless gaze that’s as blank as the sun;

sleep became nightmare by passage of centuries long before eons of slumber were done.

Higgledy piggledy, beast of antiquity, imminent, just as the prophecies warn,