When the ragpicker’s weary
Arthritic carthorse Mary
Caught a chestcold and died,
His sons and daughters cried
All night, at first for love,
And later for dread of
Their father’s tears, who wept
And paced and never slept,
Foreseeing their thin legs
Bowed out for want of rags
To trade for codliver oil
Cabbage, flannel, and coal:
How could a poor man salvage
From Castle Privilege
Orts and scraps of excess
With a dead horse in harness?
His strength was not as a horse’s.
“Tsuris. Tsuris. Tsuris.”