Spit, my man, you have a need,
venom from your inner matter.
I shall tolerate, indeed
all the sounds and then the patter
of the tiny, hurried feet
that accompany your stresses,
chills and fever, welcome heat,
looking up to He who blesses
and who hears my kindly words.
Emperors in purple dresses
fly away like drunken birds.
Herbert Nehrlich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/yes-you/
