Even back in my blue-pill and, bluntly, somewhat gamma days, I read this poem in high school and recognized what a sad, jealous, petty, sack of shit the narrator of this poem was. Study of an Elevation, in Indian Ink This ditty is a string of lies. But—how the deuce did Gubbins rise? POTIPHAR GUBBINS, C.E., Stands at the top of the tree; And I muse in my bed on the reasons that led To the hoisting of Potiphar G. Potiphar Gubbins, C.E.,…