Deprived of root, and branch and rind, <br />Yet flowers I bear of every kind: <br />And such is my prolific power, <br />They bloom in less than half an hour; <br />Yet standers-by may plainly see <br />They get no nourishment from me. <br />My head with giddiness goes round, <br />And yet I firmly stand my ground: <br />All over naked I am seen, <br />And painted like an Indian queen. <br />No couple-beggar in the land <br />E'er joined such numbers hand in hand. <br />I joined them fairly with a ring; <br />Nor can our parson blame the thing. <br />And though no marriage words are spoke, <br />They part not till the ring is broke; <br />Yet hypocrite fanatics cry, <br />I'm but an idol raised on high; <br />And once a weaver in our town, <br />A damned Cromwellian, knocked me down. <br />I lay a prisoner twenty years, <br />And then the jovial cavaliers <br />To their old post restored all three - <br />I mean the church, the king, and me.<br /><br />Jonathan Swift<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-maypole/
