The Idler

Nothing, nothing do I want, and yet I'm very poor;
An idler all my life have been, yet am afflicted sore;
Stores of wheat I call my own, and still I have no bread;
I have been married long, though now no wife adorns my bed.
A son is born to me, and yet no father has that son;
He has not been baptized as yet—there is no priest, not one;
I fain would call a priest—no priest can any where be found;
I fain would call a friend—no friend is visible around.
Bring wine! bring wine! Alas! no wine within my vaults may be;
Go buy! go buy! but who will sell or trust to me—to me?
O God! what shall I think of now in this sad poverty?