Walk of Life Poem by Sibila Petlevski

Maudlin, stumbling', falling senseless
to the ground, I used to show
my little bruises like exhibits,
pleading people not to touch them,

though they never cared a hang,
not even noticed wooden gibbets -
warnings put in words, exposed
to rain and ridicule and birds.

Forty days fed by ravens.
Forty days fed by ravens,
I have changed my walk of life.

Cloyed with pleasure, rich & sweet,
my lips are now saying grace
not before, but after meat.