Classic Poem

" I grasped a thread of silver; it cut me to the bone —
I reached for an apple; it was bleak as a stone —
I reached for a heart, and touched a raw blade —
And this was the bargain God had made
For a little gift of speech
Set a cubit higher than the common reach,
A debt running on until the fool is dead. "

Carve a Pater Noster to put at his head
As a curse or a prayer,
And leave him there.