Classic Poem

Whenever I essay to soar
Aloft in realms I term Elysian,
No mind than mine is ever more
Split into bits by long division.

And when I dip my pen in ink,
My vertebrae are made of jelly.
For I've as many things to think
About as once did P. B. Shelley.

Whenas my striving Muse is fain
To scale to Poesy's perihelion,
Like Shelley, I'm a weather-vane;
Like him, a cowardly chameleon.

I'm angry at the foolish Fates;
I'm mad at them as any hatter.
I've all of Percy Shelley's traits;
What do you think can be the matter?