A Sketch

The blindest buzzard that I know
Does not wear wings to spread and stir,
Nor does my special mole wear fur
And grub among the roots below;
He sports a tail indeed, but then
It's to a coat; he's man with men;
His quill is cut to a pen.

In other points our friend's a mole,
A buzzard, beyond scope of speech:
He sees not what's within his reach,
Misreads the part, ignores the whole.
Misreads the part so reads in vain,
Ignores the whole tho' patent plain,
Misreads both parts again.

My blindest buzzard that I know,
My special mole, when will you see?
Oh no, you must not look at me,
There's nothing hid for me to show.
I might show facts as plain as day;
But since your eyes are blind, you'd say:
Where? What? and turn away.
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