Ode To My Mentor

Lily-livered pontificating pantywaist! Would that self were not restrained ere the might of a thousand steeds counterbalance thee as armies clash over territories won and lost as the pittance of war. Did creation dare conceive, whilst yet not a spark lit by candle in fathers' eye, conflagration thus? Pangs of birth, though temporary be, taste lingers. Pia mater, tender mother, be mistress of all surveyed. Kinsman, let judgment beget; fret not o'er evil that malekind do. Self disencumber with alacrity.