Wily Walruses

Cold are the crabs that crawl on yonder hills
Cold are the cucumbers that grow beneath
And colder still the brazen chops that wreath
The tedious gloom of philosophic pills
For when the tidy feld of nectar fills
The simple bowls of demons and of men
There lurks the feeble mouse, the homely hen
And there the porcupine with all her quills
Yet much remains to weave a solemn strain
That lingering sadly, slowly dies away
Daily departing with departing day
The pea-green gamut on a distant plain
Where wily walruses in congresses meet
Such is life