If I wasn’t their own
I’d languish forgotten
In the bowels of this seething world

If I wasn’t their pride and joy
Immune to true verse
I’d surely drift and grieve

If I wasn’t their morrow
The bright beaming scourge
Of their waking eyes
I’d live among fools

I’d plot and I’d prowl
In need
In the long lost scraps
Befouled beneath
Proud passersby