What has brought the lowly one low,
What meandering thoughts, and what does he know?
What a life fraught with tragedy, woe,
What dismal plot to this poor man’s show?

The laborer staring and coldly he stares,
What is it, the limelight, the graying of hairs?
The soothing of rapture within sweet despair?
The timid ignoble ones laughing in corners,
Throwing their lots for the counting of days,
The days counting down till’ the noble man flounders,
Founting up life out in sweet love’s decay.

Ignoble ignoble they rash do scorn,
“Trouble, trouble, this man’s forlorn!
How do we tap him, how do we stop?
How do we privilege him out every drop?
How do we take him for furthest life’s course,
The limiting octave to settle his score?
How do we push him out to that edge,
And batter his brain with our dusty pledge:
‘So let it be written so let it be done,
And let not the better one have all the fun.’”

Thus laughing maniacally pledge do they speak,
Besmirching the fearful and shaming the weak.
Yet mind for cold recollection he calls,
Looking back to himself the lowly one maws,
He to his eating, his dinner, he paws,
Straightened the center of life and its jaws.