An Artist Deserves His Pay
When all our birds have flown
and milk-weed stalks pose bare,
the katydids are all gone
and leaves scatter here and there;
why would the prince come,
laden with bundles of grain—
his arable year's sum—
and not expect to gain?
We who scoop his yield,
feast on his amplitude,
then bare his playing field,
are insulting and rude.
Please accept this check,
portion out a bit more;
lift us off this poop deck,
we most humbly implore.
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