“I am no heir to the crown, no landowner’s son,”
I pondered as I chewed my gristly beef.
“Buddha may say that Vishnu and Rover are one,
but I can’t tell a Mondrian from an O’Keefe!”
The wealth of sages is scrawled on placards,
and could be their bubbly swill merely whets my need.
“Genius is tied to profit.” That’s no mere canard!
Poor Pindar, purloined to the letter P.
“Somewhere up there in the stars there’s a golden cup,”
I reflected as I guzzled my seventh ale,
“and Vishnu barks nearby, a lonesome pup,
laps up another god’s milk from a milking pail
as the dipper dips its dip into Neptune’s froth.
Of the seven sins, surely mine is sloth.”
And millions looked on as the puppy chased its tail.
[Previous: Bacchanal]
[Next: My Friend Freda]