My Human Disguise.
The dancing beggars use an old commode —
It’s long since lost most of its smell of merde —
To collect the same alms the prince bestowed.
Often a child is pushed, crying and scared,
To drop a penny in the chamber pot.
Together the beggars shout, “Thanks a lot!”
The carnival is races, song and dance,
And, out of the bailiff’s sight, games of chance,
Where more than one father will crap away
A week’s pay, then demand on terms to play.
On this day, the good women ignore vice;
The godly men forgive their brothers’ sins.
Joy is an excusable avarice.
Tomorrow, again, the war on faith begins.
