Truffles Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

He will never beg,
as it has been scripted,
by the superior laws,
he will simply drift,
like a log in the sea,
wood too hard to be used
to feed fires that ward off cold,
too much salt they say,
dulls the Stihl, makes a sound
and no one would even think
to look up when drifters come,
they have their ways, they move
when clouds are stagnant, cumulus
or funny shaped, I wonder though,
would gods be at the wheel,
to send those bums into the world,
they're proud and will not fret,
they'll take, and use both hands,
and stuff the truffles into snouts
without a second's hesitation, after all