So you thought, my corporeal beauty,
That life was a game you could win;
And you'd call a poor man a loser
As if loss were the cardinal sin?
Well, hey, look over your shoulder,
And see what the night dragged in;
A crone is rubbing her toothy palms
And grinning a sweaty grin.
So you reckoned, my bright young mastodon,
That God was a crutch for the lame.
And you'd call the lame man a loser,
As if loss were a reason for shame.
Go, walk down the darkening morning
As one not accustomed to beg
And hold your head high as a street lamp
Till you feel a sharp pain in your leg.
And, hey, look over your shoulder;
An old man is dressing to grieve.
And he's hiding an ace in his pocket watch
And he's hiding a laugh up his sleeve.
-- Stephen K. Roney