Cold are the crabs that crawl on yonder hills, <br />Colder the cucumbers that grow beneath, <br />And colder still the brazen chops that wreathe <br />The tedious gloom of philosophic pills! <br />For when the tardy film of nectar fills <br />The simple bowls of demons and of men, <br />There lurks the feeble mouse, the homely hen, <br />And there the porcupine with all her quills. <br />Yet much remains - to weave a solemn strain <br />That lingering sadly - slowly dies away, <br />Daily departing with departing day <br />A pea-green gamut on a distant plain <br />When wily walrusses in congresses meet - <br />Such such is life -<br /><br />Edward Lear<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cold-are-the-crabs/
