Will just contain a lima bean.
How seems it, brother, you who are so old,
To lie and squint with curtained eye
At these ephemera, born in the cold,
These human things so soon to die?
You were scarce grown, a paltry eighty years,
Too young to think of breeding yet,
When Christ the Nazarene loosed the salt tears
Which on man’s cheeks today are wet.
Mohammed rose and died—you churned the mud