ERE the mother’s milk had dried
On my lips, the Brethren came —
Tore me from my nurse’s side.
And bestowed on me a name
Infamously overtrue —
Such as ‘Bunny,’ ‘Stinker,’ ‘Podge’; —
But, whatever I should do.
Mine for ever in the Lodge.
Then they taught with palm and toe —
Then I learned with yelps and tears —
All the Armoured Man should know
Through his Seven Secret Years . . .
Last, oppressing as oppressed.
I was loosed to go my ways
With a Totem on my breast
Governing my nights and days —
Ancient and unbribeable.
By the virtue of its Name —
Which, however oft I fell
Lashed me back into The Game.
And the World, that never knew.
Saw no more beneath my chin
Than a patch of rainbow-hue.
Mixed as Life and crude as Sin.
Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:56