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These Idlers, Pacing
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By John Adams

Assuaged and told tales, their
Bent-leather limbs flexing arid,
Forms bone-brittle and fair-
Skinned, if meager. The flint-

Gloved men-of-commerce say:
These idlers, without brisk measure,
Will stay the pacing drones of our May-
day rash of evil leisure.

Work is the byword for pride.
The idlers sleep by way of remonstrance
And the 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

With evasion, face the truth. As the ribs
Are needed to hold the heart red-pumping.
The lazing pariahs of this, our earthly crib,
Are harvest-lambs, fresh for the clubbing.