I never felt myself a man of blood and bone
Rather, I should say, a bitter piece of cork
that lingered in a narrow gorge, alone
Thriving on the bitter fruits of alien work,
I was an idle thing that bathed in bloody hue,
reaching out and wriggling in a gurgling cage
Time again contained and waiting for my cue,
I was a servile statist held and frozen on the stage
How little did I know- my purpose was a mist
I felt a pressure from within but nearly I was blind
to sweat, the giggles, tears and men that kissed
the frail container that seemed forever pined!
How ludicrous, I would think, to hold such care
for that mere receptacle, and surely nothing more!
I felt concerned and jealous of that pallid pearl
as I seemed an utter hurdle or a spare decor
Then, one day, my fears were done- I felt a force
and gross excitement bursting from outside
I felt metallic tools, something cold and something coarse
A grip, a pull and up I sprang when voices cried
I was outside and heard a scream of angered sorrow
Upheaval rose, and soon they brushed me to the side
I could see blood, blood everywhere and all screamed
And I felt so weak, so limp, unloved
for all eyes stared as the shattered fountain streamed
in blood, streamed and seethed and hardly stopped!
Then- a silent sound, a moan, a mourning sign
And I felt a crude debris, a vile, villain
bitter cork that spoiled a perfect wine