All living words are creatures of their kind,
Each tribe of scent and sound proscribed by sense;
Some sultans in their palace, some consigned
To wander in the desert with their tents.
A snout is not a mouth, nor lips a beak,
And pus has little place in words of praise,
If shit squats close to wit, they barely speak;
If youth’s uncouth, then truth must look both ways.
Their author gods may use them as they will —
Fierce nomads make a novelty in towns,
But soon outstay their welcome.  Pomp sits ill
With courtiers as verbs or clowns as nouns.
   When poet shepherds come the great iamb,
   Then restless sleeps the lion with the lamb!