Five metric feet crawl up a misanthrope:
It's "Happiness," by Alexander Pope.
In flawless couplets fearless concepts roll:
Enjambment's scorned, and dark nights of the soul.
Shaded by a hierarchical sun,
Pope sheds his light: "Places, everyone!"
"Whatever is, is right" -- if discontentment breeds,
Tough: God (by definition) met your needs.
You toil, and the wicked take your bread?
Your cupboard full of virtue keeps you fed!
Want money stacked as far as eye can see?
Don't, says Pope. (He echoes B.I.G.)
Nor in fame should wise men place their hope
(Does not apply to Alexander Pope).
Still, I'm too harsh. (It's what rhymed couplets bring --
A sitcom moppet's artificial zing.)
Pope says that all the shit for which we strive
Seems much smaller when it does arrive,
And that seems true. But what to do instead?
"Be excellent to all," like Bill and Ted.
Pope's recipe: take some thrift-shop Stoic,
Accessorize with rhymes -- behold! heroic.
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