"Quiting" Your Classmates: A Brit Lit Blog

Having returned from the Bower of Bliss,
I was shocked and perturbed to discover,
That a well-received text such as this,
Could have such self-love to uncover:
Beowulf, forever unable to recover.
Embodying the traits I despise,
Himself he prefers above others,
His great deeds a repeating reprise,
He stands tallest in his own eyes.

I passed through temptation and excess,
He sings his own praise at a feast,
In the blissful bower I sought to redress,
While Beowulf claimed not humility in the least.
He remains no better than a bower beast,
With his haughty and perpetual praise;
What man can live on pride alone?
Does too much arrogance call Beowulf home?

His strength as a swimmer is unmatched,
His equal in arms he has none,
Those that do meet him become attached,
And he takes no shame in the lauding hum.
Of the voices who say he’s as bright as the sun,
His virtue unmatched in the Danes,
But a braggart is truly but honored by one,
His values can not be but feign,
Beowulf’s heart should remain in shame.

(I attempted to adhere to the great poet Edmund Spencer's rhyme scheme in this posting, but I remain a bit of an amateur. One may only hope that with continued posts my verse becomes more refined.)