Nature is right to rate a worthless son,
Though She may find use for him later on.
A battered thing like that, long past its prime,
Rusted and cankered with unlovely grime,
Out of shape and fashion, is good enough
To feed Creation’s furnace with the stuff
It is ever craving, supply of fresh
Material of mortal mind and flesh.
You need not be afraid that you, poor Clown,
Will—deserve as you may—be shovelled down