A Rhyme out of Motley

"I grasped a thread of silver; it cut me to the bone --
I reached for an apple; it was bleak as a stone --
I reached for a heart, and touched a raw blade --
And this was the bargain God had made
For a little gift of speech
Set a cubit higher than the common reach,

A debt running on until the fool is dead."

Carve a Pater Noster to put at his head
As a curse or a prayer,

And leave him there.