Historicus stood, and looked at his work Volumes of all of the lore on the earth A lifetime of labor, for his hoplites and serfs, All the servants and scribes his vast treasures could feed He paged through the volumes, that he couldn't read His scribes had translated, and sated his needs But he knew that the books, were the greatest indeed Or so he'd been told by his huddled elites So he summoned his guard, and the wagon was leashed And a score of apprentices gathered beneath With their tablets appended, to defend against grief For their lord could bring praises or scolds He hiked up his robe, of linen and gold And gazed at his consort, who had dared to grow old He heaved towards the wagon, and without being told His caretakers moved in to help But For once, he deferred, he'd do it himself Though a noble, well bred, he was in perfect health So he swung up his leg, and missed and he yelled, And tried to grab on to his staff But his bulk was too great, and he stumbled and crashed And there on the ground, with his sage'd head cracked As he lay there and faded, he sputtered and laughed For once he had done his own work