I am jet black, as you may see, <br />The son of pitch and gloomy night: <br />Yet all that know me will agree, <br />I'm dead except I live in light. <br /> <br />Sometimes in panegyric high, <br />Like lofty Pindar, I can soar; <br />And raise a virgin to the sky, <br />Or sink her to a pocky whore. <br /> <br />My blood this day is very sweet, <br />To-morrow of a bitter juice; <br />Like milk, 'tis cried about the street, <br />And so applied to different use. <br /> <br />Most wondrous is my magic power: <br />For with one colour I can paint; <br />I'll make the devil a saint this hour, <br />Next make a devil of a saint. <br /> <br />Through distant regions I can fly, <br />Provide me but with paper wings; <br />And fairly show a reason why <br />There should be quarrels among kings: <br /> <br />And, after all, you'll think it odd, <br />When learned doctors will dispute, <br />That I should point the word of God, <br />And show where they can best confute. <br /> <br />Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats: <br />'Tis I that must the lands convey, <br />And strip their clients to their coats; <br />Nay, give their very souls away.<br /><br />Jonathan Swift<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-ink/
