Shapes of Clay

Alas, alas, for the tourist's guide!—

He turned from the beaten trail aside,

Wandered bewildered, lay down and died.

O grim is the Irony of Fate:

It switches the man of low estate

And loosens the dogs upon the great.

It lights the fireman to roast the cook;

The fisherman squirms upon the hook,

And the flirt is slain with a tender look.

The undertaker it overtakes;

It saddles the cavalier, and makes

The haughtiest butcher into steaks.

Assist me, gods, to balk the decree!

Nothing I'll do and nothing I'll be,

In order that nothing be done to me.