The Law and the Prophets

Now, a cat, she may look at a kingdom,
a bird in the bush is worth two,
the prophet is jangling his keychain
and making up morals for you.

For all that is gold is not bitter,
and violets so rarely are blue,
the queens and the muses will prattle
to stitch up his stories for you.

For a purse is an ear in a sow's eye,
under skies where her late children flew,
in this world the elves only wear orange,
and he metes out his morals to you.

To yourself do, as you do to others,
free your soul from the tyrant of "true,"
aristocracy bounded by rhombus
is the gift of his verses to you.

The penny that's spared is still burning,
the frying pan damns up the flue.
The cipher, the psalmist, the husband,
are the cast of his fable to you.

For the rabbits are chaste—in their households,
walls of glass need a rock to pass through,
and Jove and the weeds on the hillock
is the scope of his story to you.

Oh, a cat still may look on a kingdom,
and the song of the caged bird is grim.
And someday, if ever he falters,
you'll sing back your stories to him.