1. 

I play the host at a table spread

with the finest of things that the world has bled.

I always saw

that they'd claw for more,

but the joy I toy is their daily bread.

2. 

And now that I know they thieve and fight

in the shaded glades of the secret night,

come those who suppose

that I must distrust

such a wear and tear of our human right.

3. 

Alas I know what they find to steal

is the silver plate at a pirate's meal:

whilst I who try

to cost what's lost

forget the debt that the past must feel.

4. 

It's sad when men you regard as friends

deliver blows where you can't defend.

I need to feel

that each weal's unreal,

as I prance a dance that can never end.

5. 

As a limping visionary I'll remain,

for my feet are filled with a patchwork pain.

Yet I'm no' to show

that they broke each toe,

and I grope to hope that I'll walk again.

6. 

As I travel west, I shall greet each knave

with a candid smile and a friendly wave.

Though my sores are raw,

I shall walk the floor

of a stage whose wage is the peace I crave.

7. 

And though I know they may strike again,

they must never guess that I see them plain.

With eyes still kind,

I shall mind them blind -

through tears that appear in the rarest rain.

8. 

It's well to tell that there's none to blame,

for this life itself is a cheating game.

Though a guest may jest

at his tools, the fools,

the host must toast those who bring him pain.