A fat-rumped squirrel
On its hind legs
Rubs both hands together
Like a monk in prayer
Its altar is somewhere
Up in the temple between the leaves
A chant or two from the store
Where the nuts and kernels lay
When someone promises you a silky robe
Take another look at his own wardrobe
One whose stomach is hunger’s battleground
Can hardly throw a peaceful banquet
Our whisper is louder
Than their shout
The words which amaze their wit
Are the common fare of our proverb
Don’t look too close
At the masquerade’s face
Guide your gaze
To his dancing feet
“The shroud has no pocket”,
My friend once observed
How I wish our Thieves-of-State
Had ears to grab a hint
* In short
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