The deer wants leaves of beauty
To chew and swallow down;
The bear wants spheres of honey
To claw and lick around.
The whale’s mouth, it opens wide
To let sweet fishes in,
But man, some say, he must decide
That wanting is a sin.
I say, who’s wants are very small,
Who thinks it foul to crave,
He’s hardly, barely, man at all,
But boss of his own slave.
He’s god of nothing, king of death,
Who whips away desire;
He earns no right to his own breath
Who drowns out his own fire.
In ages past, some poets said
That life with naught was ease,
That something wanted hurt your head,
That life ascetic was the way,
The only road of peace,
That “want” and “get” lead men astray,
And grant them no release.
I say that he whose wants are poor
Is base, a worm, is vile;
That wanting little shuts the door
On natural human style.,
That being less, and last, and least,
Is hate of his own life,
And he who’d fast instead of feast
Cuts sight with his own knife.
He cuts himself, he suicides,
In falsely moral tone;
Immoral he, as he derides,
While men eat meat, not bone.
A-top some mount, from cities quit,
Alone, with nothing done,
He ventures nil and says “that’s it”
Each rise and fall of sun.
Each day’s the same, each night the same,
As year goes passing year,
And nameless he, whose passive flame
Burns neither woe nor cheer.
He has no game, he has no aim,
He has no dream or goal;
He has no love, or hate, or shame,
He lives without a soul.
Yet some do say he’s virtuous,
Who reason have put by,
And while they pray to nurture us
Hold death, their standard, high.
Death has no game, death has no aim,
Death has no goal or dream;
Death has no love, or hate, or shame,
He dies to hear a scream.
But man wants things of beauty
To gaze on, feel inspired;
And useful things, like money,
To gain all he’s desired.
The human mind, it opens wide
New joys to gather in;
All good things got are man’s great pride,
And wanting, it is in!
He’s god of motion, king of “try!”
Each road a great high way,
And man will live, although men die,
In moral light of day!