No Art is Born of Happiness

No art is born of happiness,
Such work demands some pain
Pursue a life devoid of strife,
And never write again.
So when he speaks of promises
To kill your thieves and crooks,
Beware old friend, for thus begins
The end of all your books.
But silence not the mindless fool
Nor let him see you fret,
Oblivious he stands, behold:
Your latest villain yet.