When I urged Principal Leonard J. Fliedner
Back to life I thought he'd settle in Lower Manhattan
And find work, perhaps at a Spanish restaurant
On Seventh Avenue where dignity and a degree
Of cadaverous thinness are the usual marks
By which the waiters know themselves. At worst
I'd give him a guitar and a hat and send him busking.
What, though, has the madcap old man done but set up
As a minor god, promising the devout
Success in love or with dice or a perhaps a talent
For finding, in utmost need, a silver coin
Or brass dagger in your hand.
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