I am well unfed
there is nothing made from the dough
the days that I have though tread
make me feel vain to rest at the bough
Silence is begotten in the roots
of the marching armies of the nation
but I slouch on the sofa without boots
and ten thousand soldiers clamor for ration
The world is one food basket yet the hungry mouths yell loud
and the tinkering bells tinkle over the meandering cloud
The sounds fickle and feeble
my stomach empty yet my tongue is able
to sing the symphonies for the ponies in the stable
who though fed like to fight the races
I run through the streets without laces.
Only to return to the hungry yards of the fable.