We urchins did survive
The cesspool of our streets.
Our joy at being alive
Depended on such treats
As husbandry can do.
In sounds of songs unsung
We learned this as we grew–
Flowers grow from dung;
And ancient songs renew.
To survive, how, does that happen, or more like, how doesn’t it; I would have said naively, why has the thread so weakened, where there was once a rope?