Ah, says he, to work I aught
By loom to sit and weave some cloth
And any poetic ideas passing he sought
While in his room
The weaver poet on paper caught
That was by his loom.
For him each was a part
Each as dear to him in his heart
Loom to weave, paper on which to impart
Ideas of his day
Or to vent his angst to start
His grievance to say.
And upon the Sabbath morn
He left loom and paper and flax and corn
To worship God and hear preacher warn
Of sin deviously lurking
To strike and tempt the sinner shorn
By drunkenness from working.