Oh, the pot-bellied carafe could only serve for candlestick
And the snotty candle burns it’s tallow sputtering.
And, in such a need, be inspired – poet sing;
From a century no mon’, wine, from a month I haven’t drink.

Oh God, why I’m not a mouse? It has fur nevertheless;
I would eat my books; the frost – I wouldn’t care,
It would seem to me so sweet, superbly, a peace of Homer.
The wife – an icon; and the wall’s hole – a palace.