2024-12-15

Lessen

When, with my plate at table I recline,
To fill, therewith, that flesh-ed hungry gorge,
Away from putrid slurry are mine eyes,
And shut are ears to cheers from smiths at forge.

Oh! Curse our peepers, who, so wont to fly,
Protest therein that what is needed most!
Indignantly, our hearts prefer the sky
To wretched meek: the feet, bound down below.

Look here! Be chastised one who ne’er desired
To claim the bed lest ‘someone’ made him tired!