Classic Poem

Ripped from the comfort of his painted coffin
And his priest's wrappings,
That guard his soul from harm,
He lies in shriveled nakedness under a slab of glass:
Poor holy man!

And with black-crusted, skinny hands
He pulls his crumbling linen up his loins
In somber modesty.

Not all the long three thousand years of sun-gold Thebes,
The molten closeness of his sacred tomb,
Have shrunk and withered him
As this slow, idle fire of ribald eyes
Day after day.