Thou art a bony flesh;

Worth my view, not
A queer ghastly being.
Oh shame; thou art no other thin,
But a poor senseless loom!

We're sated with a sip
Of thy service, and no ruth
Of thine from thy feast
Which our elbows have forked.

We commend the now,
But wilt thou enslave us henceforth
Whereas we're in sepulchersw comfort
Or in our Master's bosom?

The height the hath reached-
Thee may proceed to soar, thereinafter;
For we have hands that through
Thy pretty clowns, can only toil, toil.

Though an easement we fare,
Whilst thee glide high-We stake upon,
As we lade out our braided distress,
That erelong-thou shalt beg metigation

Before every escoriated man!

by Agboyi Felix

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