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