Omar Khayyám

Some for the Patter of Little Feet: and some
Sigh for their Flight to the Nothing whence they come.
Ah, take the Chance and let the Children go.
Risk any Fate but an eternal Drum.

Lo, that marineless Boat they call a Shoe,
That shelters Me and my Rebellious Crew,
I’d strip it of its leather, potent-tanned,
And potently I’d tan the Children, too.

The Boy no question makes of has his Nose
Been wiped or not, or where the wiper goes.
Ask Him that spheres aloft the Gilded Three:
He knows about it all — He knows —HE knows!

There was the Keyhole that refused the Key:
There was the Pail that set the Water free
And when I ask, Who bored, who bunged the Hole?
Each renders answer, “Oh, it wasn’t Me!”

And when Another of the precious Lot
Is set to make the Water boiling hot,
And round the Pot still Potters, and I say,
“You’ve let the Pot run dry,” —”Oh, go to Pot!”

I sometimes think that never tastes so dead
The Broth as when it’s eaten sans the Bread:
That every Palm-tree in the Desert bears
A Bough for smiting some young Dunderhead.

A Look of Curses underneath the Bough,
A Juggle, a Whine, no Loaf, but Bed—and thou-
-sand Jackals howling in the Wilderness,
Beside It, were as parodies “Miaou!”