No cradle but a crib of corn.
The wool that from the sheep was shorn
provided him something to wear
To keep him warm. A single tear
fell from his mother's eye when he
screamed and wailed and wept, for she
did not know why. Did he need changed?
Or fed? Or his bed re-arranged?
Yet all seemed right. Perhaps he saw
the day he would show his meat raw,
his flesh impaled upon a stake.
Perhaps he just had a headache.
Perhaps he felt a bit forlorn—
no cradle but a crib of corn.
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