I walked the streets of Dundalk, Maryland
In Baltimore, when winters shiver shook
Bright festive baubles clung in every nook
And flickering lights from windows gaily spanned
And by Papapsco Church I paused to stand
And gazed upon a host of the good book
And open-mouthed I felt compelled to look
Upon a scene obscene to understand
As ragged folk on benches tried to sleep
And county folk with badges moved them on
And pinned a blunt citation to church door
That shamed the reverend that tried to keep
Poor homeless folk from freezing evermore
At Christmas in a land most Christian

And thou did ask, and lo I brung
A bullish thing, nonsensical,
And thou discarded e'er too long
My gift, inconsequential;

Why ask me for to fetch for thee
A thing thou found detestable?
Thou know'st I pander aught for thee,
Yet treat me as divestable.

I can hear the music all around me,
The thrum of long-boat hulls against the shore,
And drummer boys with stockinged feet resound me,
And heavy hammered horse shoes pound the floor,

And gunners with their twenty-ones astound me,
And diggers crash their picks into the floor,
And cannoneers launch volley fire to pound me,
And bayonets clash like cymbals on the moor,

And fighter pilots boom above to ground me,
And tank commanders rumble to the fore,
Submariners slosh water up to drowned me,
And infantry sing heartily of the corp,

And all around I hear their music roar,
The ghosts of all our heralds gone to war.

If hempen cloth to paupers garb is made,
Grey daubed as hearth'd ash, rough as firewood kindling,
And for each king, gold silken raiments laid,
Bright as the jesters smock for courtly mingling,
What garment fit for thee Clotho would make?
Unto her spindle all threads are first woven,
And of thy lot? Why, Lachesis would take!
And gift to Atropos to see thee cloven!
Who then should fret to say my garb is drab?
Tis not thine outer skin three fates have wrought,
So of thine self, judge not thy bone, thy flab,
For in thee, fates have spun all thou has sought!
    Thy measured lot was cast afore thy waking,
    And strength in thee to set the heavens shaking!

Selene's bright torch cast light through blackest night,
Unmasking gaped ravines in jagged rocks
That plunged down seeping cracks to Hades lair.
Mist-drenched ice-laden claws of winters bite
Tugged, scratched, gnawed bare cut fingers to the bone,
As limp, up mountain *****, the straggler climbed.

His face, a mask contorted by ordeal,
A coney cloak adorned his weathered back
Bent low by weight of many a mortal sin,
And hoof-like feet hid snug in blackened boots.
Half-shuttered eyes attested to the cold,
Whipped without mercy by the frigid wind.

Vile taunting voices mocked him from on high,
Each screeching laugh, an arrow to his spine,
Pointed reminders to his dismal plight,
Urging him up with heart-filled hatred pain
That surged like Zeus's lightning through his veins
And pushed him on to scale fresh heights above.

They spied, with venomed eyes, his trialled ascent,
Shifting from foot to foot to ease the cold,
Waiting till blood-drenched fingers stretched in vain,
Then leaping up on wings of patterned bronze
They took to flight, squawking in wild delight,
To see him slip, then stumble to his knees.

His failing arms flailed madly at the birds,
Hopeless to reach, lest Zeus should grant him wings,
And there upon the jagged mountain peaks
His tested will was hacked, cleaved, scattered wide,
As she who passed before and took his mind
Now lay, in darkened places of the world.

From deep within his cloak he pulled a flute
And shook the reeds, and rattled with a din
To shake the Gods within their hallowed halls
And of his fury, none has ever matched,
And fright took taunting voices from the birds
Who fearing for their feathers, swiftly fled.

Alone atop the world, the flute he raised
To tight pursed lips began a mournful air
That trembled over freshly fallen snow,
Recounting days forbidden love was chaste
And chased in answer to his endless lust,
Unsated by his many mortal sins.

Each fluted note sang long unto the night,
A serenade to all Selene had bade
Into her light, and then upon the wind
A voice as clear, as bright as Cygnus, came
In answer with a song like as his song,
So mournful that it crushed his broken heart.

If it were I, a hunkered mass
Of unkempt hair and tangled rags,
Lain prone beneath the underpass,
Enclaved in chattel bulked-out bags,

If it were I, alone, afraid,
Tight-bitten lips in silent prayer,
And listless eyes, all hope decayed,
And slumped, oppressed, done by despair,

And if you cast my shadowed shape,
Would you come seek my name?
Or look as I for quick escape,
And thence to bear my shame.