The proverb hath it, Waterman:
“There never is great loss without
Some little gain.” ’Tis Nature’s plan
Of restitution, I’ve no doubt;
As sometimes a repentant thief
Restores, for conscience’s relief,
Some ten percent, or thereabout,
Of all the loot with which he ran.
Dear Governor, when you were ill
You lost, they say, some twenty pound;
But, muse and ponder as I will.
And cast my searching thoughts around,
I find in that great loss no gain—
Unless indeed in heart and brain
You suffered it; but I’ll be bound
That they are unaffected still.
For still you’re foolish and absurd,
And still malicious and perverse
As ever; and in truth I’ve heard
That since recovering you’re worse.
The inference, I think, is fair:
You lost not what we best could spare:
Your character remains to curse
The State until you’re sepulchred.
’Tis true there’s measurably less
Of you to pack—and you’re a load—
But chiefly that concerns, I guess,
The patient beast that you bestrode
When, booted, spurred and gloved and all,
You led Mark Boruck from the stall,
To ride him on that rocky road,
Political unrighteousness.
In gain to Boruck, though, we scan
A loss to every honest soul,
It aids the weekly Harridan ,
His thoroughbred-and-butter foal.
To end: the weight whose loss we mourn,
From Waterman by illness torn,
Was mostly water —it were droll
To learn he’d twenty pounds of man !