Truffles

He will never beg, as it has been scripted, by the superior laws, he will simply drift, like a log in the sea, wood too hard to be used to feed fires that ward off cold, too much salt they say, dulls the Stihl, makes a sound and no one would even think to look up when drifters come, they have their ways, they move when clouds are stagnant, cumulus or funny shaped, I wonder though, would gods be at the wheel, to send those bums into the world, they're proud and will not fret, they'll take, and use both hands, and stuff the truffles into snouts without a second's hesitation, after all