By John Adams
Assuaged and told tales, their
Bent-leather limbs flexing arid,
Forms bone-brittle and fair-
Skinned, if meager.
Gloved men-of-commerce say:
These idlers, without brisk measure,
Will stay the pacing drones of our
day rash of evil leisure.
Work is the byword for pride.
The idlers sleep by way of remonstrance
leper-handed arbiters, pried
Open by the watchmakers persistence, say:
The idle and unharried, the underdressed
inept and short of heart.
All these are roaming the fertile mesh
With their listless arms swinging. Part
evasion, face the truth. As the ribs
Are needed to hold the heart red-pumping.
The lazing pariahs of this, our earthly
Are harvest-lambs, fresh for the clubbing.