The wall of his environment, Altho' Chinese, was not so high He could not see tiled roofs of kings Like dragon backs against the sky. And so, spurred on by discontent, An eagle pen that lent him wings Transported him across the wall To tea in gardens with the Mings. Thus staged, his long but static fall Made drama for ancestral ghosts, Whose proud transgressions raised the wall Of ego, which with echoed boasts Had in past epochs starved their souls With windy oats of self-applause; Till they had met great grandpapas Twit-tittering on the seething coals. |