Of course I am a Sycophant
And though this may be screed upon a rant
I am helpless as your love's most devoted flagellant.

For to fan-a-fig underlies the sickness of every Psycho-fan
And the perverse abnormal psyche that makes a Sicko-fan.
But mere the mortal I have always been more the Psyche fan

For my fancy would have me fan the flame
Of Eros, the story of how god and human first fell in love.
For Cupid, Love's other name, adored his Psyche with self-inflicted pain
And in her bed, lay in love, his true identity never known,
His face hid beneath obsequy and flattery.

When truth revealed itself, their love was not the same
For Apdodite's jealous wrath parted them, as with a shove
Story says it was Zeus who fused the lovers once again
To lie together, revealing what before was never shown
Sycophants, snared by bonds of each soul's slavery.

For to fig-a-fan, you see, is but a fancy of the eloquence of man.
Two Loves revealed is the closure of pain's psychic span,
And that tells the tale, tall and true, of Psyche and her most fanatic fan.


 
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