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.
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