Burns Party (Odium for Posers)

Academia loves to profess—
The Bard’s sonnets speak for Kings,
Queens and the court’s finest.
I tell you though, I just gotta laugh.
If every poser's verse was divine,
Their twisted verse would’ve swayed souls
Of future ghosts and archaic times.

They quote canon like its gospel.
Though, never ask who built the altar
Ignorant to Celts before the English tongue,
Blind to griots, glyphs, and irreverent doctrines.

Let all toast something old, something new,
A little borrowed, a little Bleu—
I’ll light the match; I’ll throw the gas.
Let textbooks curl like autumn leaves.
Let footnotes choke on their jackets dust.

As archives burn, the lore sustains:
Praise the bards who prosed in shadow—
Lacaba flicking his rebel tongue,
Burns unsteady, shifting shape.
The unnamed ones who stitched their verse—
Into the bones of broken nations.

This is not rebellion.
This is ritual correction.

So let the canon tremble.
Let the syllabus molasse.
As the myth walks out unscathed,
wreathed in smoke...

Grinning—as syllabi are ash’d.