"Young Jake's a gainly lad" you volunteered,
As if in doing so you might allay
Those products of this fact that you most feared,
Or nullify the fact in some vague way.
Then, bound to your doomed strategy of trust,
You took young Jake inside your inner walls,
To take your tools that gathered webs and rust,
To plough your idle fields when harvest calls.
Did you think these good turns made you immune?
Young Jake is not a miracle or slave.
Stronger than gratitude, old forces soon
Goad takers to usurp the man that gave.
Now, take a guess whose bed young Jake adorns.
Now take a mirror, see your cuckold horns.

(same poem in file)

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