For your Lord,
Whose sun-shined shins
Rest on my head;
Who kindly throws me the scraps
Of pickled cabbage and carrot skins;
Whose hunger-less nights
Lighten mine.
For you Lord,
Glassy-haired and legs like fine lines
Whose soft hands stitch together
Trials with no laws
And rules with no etching in the sand;
For my Lord
That pays my wages
Button-like coins and tolled bell,
Tucks my head in like a spell;
And I dream of sugar plums
And the beating of a drum,
For me, my lord