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A Maypole

 Deprived of root, and branch and rind,
Yet flowers I bear of every kind:
And such is my prolific power,
They bloom in less than half an hour;
Yet standers-by may plainly see
They get no nourishment from me.
My head with giddiness goes round, And yet I firmly stand my ground: All over naked I am seen, And painted like an Indian queen.
No couple-beggar in the land E'er joined such numbers hand in hand.
I joined them fairly with a ring; Nor can our parson blame the thing.
And though no marriage words are spoke, They part not till the ring is broke; Yet hypocrite fanatics cry, I'm but an idol raised on high; And once a weaver in our town, A damned Cromwellian, knocked me down.
I lay a prisoner twenty years, And then the jovial cavaliers To their old post restored all three - I mean the church, the king, and me.

Poem by Jonathan Swift
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