Oh Humble Head


























Oh humble head,
Within thy bed,
Of rancid drain,
‘Neath rusty grille.

Thou lookest up,
At soles of dirt
At boots of power,
Each passing hour,
And long to feel,
Their leather heel,
Be they wet or dry,
Flat or high.

But no boot shall stop,
To grant thee sop.
For thou art lowly,
And they are holy,
Protecting the feet,
Of those you greet,
With silent yearning.

And so you lie,
In sewerage mire,
Ignored by all,
Deserving ire.

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