Et tu, brute

You envy me my sentences astute.
You hate me for my mastery of the sign
So why  throw Ludwig’s ladder with  your doubt?

You wish dismisses me as wild lambs bleat.
You hate the way I draw a  circle  round a  line
You  corrupt me making sentences astute

What use is  it to me to Dirac quote,
To exist on a grant and study Quine,
When phallic symbols are forbidden fruit?

Do children spring from minds of my repute?
Must I as female offer to decline?
You envy me my symbolic repute

What is signified by my own doubts?
Is the unnamed nameless or divine?
Must signifiers suffer signs’ defeat?

If  Kings who lost their heads had but resigned
And infants happy climbed their  wooden frames
You’d envy not my sentences astute.
Post-modernity caused damage  et tu brute