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Joe Pug
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The Servant's Ace
There's a bird, fair and gold, whom my owners do hold.
She refuses to make them a sound.
How it pains them to think that for me she does sing
While I carry their riches around.
I might work in their fields, bear them their meals
I might carry the letters they send.
There's a treasure, I know, buried deeply below
That will shatter the shovels of men.
There are children of theirs in the bedroom upstairs.
I taught them their letters and words.
They refuse to be heirs and inherit their share
Of a fortune that they never earned.
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I might sleep in their fold, do as I'm told.
I might shepherd the young that they tend.
There's a silence I leave in the spaces between
That will shadow the lessons of them.
I might meet on the shores they defend, handle the money they lend.
I might shackle the hands they condemn.
There's a treasure, I know, buried deeply below
That will shatter the shovels of men.
There's a bird, fair and gold, whom my owners do hold.
She refuses to make them a sound.
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