Classic Poem

His body doubled
under the pack
that sprawls untidily
on his old back
the cold wet deadbeat
plods up the track

The cook peers out:
" oh curse that old lag
here again
with his clumsy swag
made of a dirty old
turnip-bag"

" Bring him in cook
from the grey level sleet
put silk on his body
slippers on his feet,
give him fire
and bread and meat

Let the fruit be plucked
and the cake be iced,
the bed be snug
and the wine be spiced
in the old cove's nightcap:
for this is Christ."