I've got a man who thinks a lot of me.
My presence seems to warm his artsy heart.
When in abyssal doom and gloom is he,
My image shows its face and does its part.
So I've become a useful tool for him,
A character endowed upon his stage:
I play my role until the sun goes dim
And then turn back to words upon a page.
My place is not inscribed in history,
Except in adulation from his pen!
My whole life thus becomes a mystery
Of little consequence to learnéd men!
How lucky for this one it has transpired,
To be by famous poet thus admired!