You lift your haughy frame, high with conceit,
Upon my dais
And watch me labor at the task of
Making mirrors of your shoes.
To you I'm just another menial who makes
Obeisance to your shining leather
With my rag and brush.
But I often wonder if you ever stop to think—
As you fling to me the well-earned dimes—
That One whose might is more than
Yours or mine
Would gladly bathe your snobbish feet
In holy oil.