Back then, to be a potboy,
was not; to smell of roses,
still as any vegetable
as vision decomposes,
then; my hunger made,
a search; for all to eat,
I looked down; I saw two hooves
that plainly were my feet,
my unicorn has gone now,
for fourteen cleaned up years,
though cup; is sometimes dirtied
by old wines; and vintage beers,
so, now to be a potboy
is to wrinkle up my hands, to
wash away the soap suds
and make sure; my hope; still stands.