If lovers war
in a wild bed
and fall like wounds
on veteran sleep
oh will the child
be mild, be mild?
If lovers wince
on summer silk
and slide like snakes
to frozen sleep
oh will the child
be wild, be wild?
If lovers farm
their stubborn sods
for stolid crops
in chores of sleep
oh will the child
be child, be child?
Child, child,
I rub your hump
for talking’s luck:
do not mistake
the King for Fool
or Fool for King:
exploit will cringe
beside the throne,
gibes will sack
a hearty Rome,
when cause meets luck,
when cause meets luck.
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