The pundit lectured that the world was young As ever, frisking like a spring-time colt Around the sun, his mother. The class hung Upon his words. I listened like a dolt.

And muttered that I saw the wastrel drawn Along a road with many a pitch and bump By spavined mules—this very day at dawn! And heading for an ammunition dump.

The savant claimed I heckled him, but—Hell! I saw the fellow in a tumbril there, Tattered and planet-eyed and far from well, With Winter roosting in his Alpine hair.