Of the ditch

Lo! Ye be of the lowly weed.

Seeds of ye abundant be.

No matter to fall on stone,

potential brick or glass.

They sprout and flourish

in the dark or thick grass.

 

Lo! Every travel ye vestige.

Ye be assail in blustering gale.

And yet thee set forth

generations to ever unfurl.

Tumble and bumble your way

along the road will hurl.

 

Lo! Taking as though a gypsy. 

Spending thee of spent will be.

Hungry roots grow deep.

Thirsty tendrils do creep.

Defending poisons seep,

as throng of thorns cause leap.

 

 

Lo! Change is an age old chum.

Ye took chance of circumstance.

Searching though the rubble,

abandoned house and yard,

of crow, rat and even roach.

Aye, of you, so sings the bard.

 

Lo!  Ye should be proud.

Ye outlasts while higher castes past.

Of great, untraveled blood

and pipes of poisoning lead.

Greater yet, delicate beauty.

Their vineyards now lay dead

 

Lo!  Lift ye head high.

Ye should know as the times grow.

Endureth your family loins,

in current times do play,

knowing not the solemn grave

but only warmth of day.