Driven to rout by the wings of the left,
Beating and fanning a world bereft
Of Truth or Beauty or semblance of Reason,
Right blown away – Oh, what a treason!

A world once proud, by Prometheus taught
The arts of fire and metals wrought,
Is now but a dream in a masculine mind,
One of the few that’s been left behind

In the wake of the storm of those flapping wings,
On the empty hell-scape the left always brings
With its rule of gay tranny pedophiles proud,
He stands alone in the pussified crowd

Shielding his gaze from transvestite asses
Wiggling proudly to cheer on the masses
Marching behind the rainbow flags
Proclaiming the feminist triumph of fags.

What hero will save us from this desolation?
Who the man and from what nation?
Which the band of paladins bright
Can raise the standards and take the fight

To the lefty coocoos and clip their wings
And make us monuments to rightful kings?
Lo! There! in the misty distance
Glimpse you the dawn of brave resistance?

T’is Atelier Missor, in suspenders all clad,
Gallic nibelungen, each one a chad!
With chisel and hammer, a battalion of pals,
Loving Napoleon more than Pigalle,

In A.I. clips they promise to create
Titanium monuments to Prometheus the great,
Who for his crimes was chained to a rock
His liver daily eaten by an eagle sized cock.

Their massive metal god they will mount on the Moon,
If not, then Mars – and that very soon –
For no longer can we bear the testosterone drain,
Pumped by left wing flapping, too great is the strain!

Oh, Atelier Missor, chudly paladins of art,
May your boasts be true and not just a fart,
Not merely more gas, we’ve had quite enough
Of left wing wind and art-talk guff.

Paul Rhoads, triumphant in all flame wars since the beginning of the century, is universally feared by the internet as an unmanageable and consistantly victorious troll. Unexspectedly attacking any and all pundits he finds wanting, he drives them into entertaining rages.
An unrepentant boomer Rhoads delights in shaming newer generations for their ignorance and baseless pretentions. His claims to wide knowledge of literature, history, philosophy and the arts, in addition to a profound wisdom delightful to his eager followers, is contested by his victims whose obvious stupidity discredits their claims.
Rhoads is an unclassifiable quantity. The contrast of his eclectic relations and rigid principles confounds all attempts at pigeonholing.
Rhoads escaped New York in 1990 and currently resides in his castle, St. Gabriel les Chats, located at the exact center of nowhere.