Constructed on a spindly scheme,
And anorexic as I seem,
In point of fact I'm fed full well,
Though many say I look like hell.
Or, if not hell, at least like him
Who rode a pale horse, deathly grim,
In St. John's vision of dread time
When famine stalked through every clime.
But others take a different tack,
And say mine is a godly knack
For the ascetic life, austere,
Abstemious, above all fear;
Like those who forty days and nights,
Went fasting through the mountain heights,
Traversed by prophets, men of God,
And by the Lord Himself once trod.
Or like St. Francis who was wed
To Poverty, and bravely led
A breadless life, but did not sulk
To walk unmarred by fleshly bulk.
But to all this I lay no claim,
And this alone may prove my fame:
That I, who take a glutton's share,
Appear to live on friar's fare.