Roused at last, should the planet, half-awakened,
Stare dim-eyed, and twitch a span of hide
To void the itch, pray that for the sake
Of latent pity, musing suicide,
Innocence may be spared. Let man go down,
Head-first, heels kicking; let his bull-dozer
Ascend, trailing the jet-bomber, blown
Toward Sirius, to atomized repose.
But may earth’s hide twitch gently in regard
To these: the field mouse, with timorous eyes,
The mole, whose fat hands work so tireless-hard,
And periwinkle, square-cut from August sky.
Bias pleads for that harlequin-visage thrummer,
Cricket, with his affable one-note drum.