Tyger tyger, burning bright—
you self-ingest your ash each night.
A frog, he scavenges the bones and
with the splinters plays at dice.
This frog, he makes his home in mud
and with the rat he smokes some bud.
Together in their lustful cloud,
the two pump fresher, bolder blood
while in the ether echoes high
a scintillating, clarion cry,
for there, in alate sapience
above all muck, the wingéd fly.

As weird as this poem certain is,
to be the bird one must first live
below, must crawl, must wallow deep.
So say the wise who ever give.

And I?

I dare not fly; I never will.
To crawl would be much bolder, still.
This paltry, shallow thing I be
is burning tygers, never filled.