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.