Complaints

I once thought with musing mind,
what if one should suddenly find
(I chuckle when I think of it!)
oneself a snake, in a mongoose pit?
And would it not make people think,
and rant, and make a frightful stink,
and take stock of their senses while they squirm,
if transformed into a worm?
Perhaps they’d not be so bigot,
if changed into an ocelot.
Would they retain their hate and greed,
as a patch of motley brown seaweed?

If rocks and trees and dogs,
and elephants and hogs,
and even a rotting leaf,
complain not of their grief,
then why should mortal man, as such,
make of so little, so damned much?