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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required In that old dorm, Mates were like they in bleak hostility. At home we tried lies for fatter baggage And we were happier when we'd got Infrated purses. But no much Was so much for starving bowels; And limbs too lean, needing rations For smith men. Lean hands and feet were the magicians' reed And food they said needed go there But there were no food, except a mixture Of beans and ... Certainly a mixture, but not a soul Could tell for certain what. And we held by the passion of parched tongues, And no water to aid a mole share would rather let the unknown be. But such a ration! And one could help oneself in some way. I tried the brain that came Since lies I'd learnt Of plates wandering on their own. I would have one wandering, while The other I hold stilled - An inch... and more from my crow's feet. A moment came, and wandering I took to myself, toiling Or appearing to since success In this game required a show of skill. Searching out a grey plate Among grey tables was a task And more when at first sight I must pretend not to have seen it. But I did stop at length, Swearing, cursing! "Who did bring my plate here?" No answers, except eyes blinking ruefully; And much a gain, I had to go now. If joy was that which crept into My tiny heart, a part at the rear Was timed to have it short. And the po-faced lad was beginning To snarl, saying he knew This game of double ration I shouldn't, he warned Try his table another time.
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