Is a writer who doesn’t write
Like an orb weaver that doesn’t weave
A kingfisher that can’t fish
A traveler who never leaves?
When the chicken no longer lays eggs
Do we wring its neck, in respect
To the one thing it has left to lay down
(For us) we give grace for having it yet
The toothless dog still must produce bark
If we are not to resent giving room and board
And the lazy farmer’s son be ignored until death
If only to find meaning for life in the Lord
Castaways all, and any more ill-equipped
Futile words all be uttered but still
Damnation is reserved for those who have lips