I'll touch you not, you much abus-ed rag, Poor slave of all those epidermic rites Performed by thousands who have come to drag Their cindery surface to this bowl's delights. This tattered hem I vow shall thus remain, These holes shall grow not till another time. You've had enough; that faint but lingering stain Shall take no fresh addition from my grime Respected, honored, I will leave you here For others' service -- or to join the dead. Nay, more! That pair of holes have roused my fear! I'd better stow you here beneath the bed Lest, rising in the dark, I do you hurt Trying to don you for an undershirt. |