I once was drawn towards the poor—

And not with gaze of condescension,

For it was only really there

That life went on without pretension.

Although some noble clans I knew

And public of sophistication,

The parasitic I’d eschew,

Befriended those of wastrel’s station.

To waken friendship then I sought

With those I met from ranks of toiler,

For which I earned from them their thought

That I belonged amidst the squalor.

I didn’t need fine words to feel,

Was real, and earthy and quite certain—

A simple cellar was my deal,

An attic home without a curtain.

And I have rotted since that time,

Corruption of the age afflicted

Midst bourgeois-optimistic climb,

My grief by shame has been convicted.

I’ve long been faithless to all those

Whom I was bound to by trust’s duty

I’ve lost the human path I chose

With all who spurn such simple beauty.