I cannot tell the children of the Inn sweepers
not to eat the leftovers or sup the bottom dregs
or I tell them not to speak the parlance of drunks
born to the ferment of  ale fumes and saw dusts
destined hunter-gatherers of shortchanges    
and lower dives and shanty holes chicaneries
so
pray tell how the ravishing fouls and backwards
see beyond the dank and laden walls of misspent
can these tell us silver are polished and gold glitters
or pen proses in Latin with the flourish of scribes
who expects etiquette or form from bottle washers
can scrubbers in calico tell venetian laces from silk
one
does as one is borne is affirmation of natural truth
such as the gobbledygook of downtown ale births
is only meaningful to likeminded from the marshes
with eyes of green forked tongues and pilfering hands
we flinch not at the addled brain antics of fumed retards
or pay mind to the anodyne display of threshers caste
sour