Manna & Quail

Numbers 11:18-22

Lord, all men must feed on words,
and poetry is our grain.
In a land that grows just wild rice
we ask for farms and rain.

Give us limericks for the happy times
and sonnets for the sad.
Give us meter when the forecast's good
but free verse when it's bad.

Billy Collin's nice at morning time,
Eliot's best in the afternoon;
Lewis or Hopkins are good with tea,
Kipling with a great monsoon.
But O Lord,
for your name and mercy's sake,
never give us William Blake.

If heavenly words are to be our diet,
there's all sorts of poetry,
and we'd like to try it.
But oh! lest our menu be all of proses,
let not our poetry come out of our noses.