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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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