by R. P. LISTER
GRIFFIN, Griffin, all alone,
Lying on a sun-warmed stone.
Speak to me of all vour lore
What, O what, are Griffins for?
Are they beautiful or not?
Are they cold or are they hot?
Tell me, Griffin, grave of phiz.
Tell me why a Griffin is!
Stretching out your shiny claws
As acknowledging applause,
One green eye that greenly winks
Tell me what a Griffin thinks!
On your stone stretched out at ease.
Free from toil and free from fleas,
You appear like one apart —
Has a Griffin got a heart?
Every Griffin I have known
Lay along a sun-warmed stone
Like a teapot on a shelf
Being Griflin by itself;
Curling ear and barbed tongue,
Griffin neither old nor young,
Griffin never in a rage,
Griffin wise and Griffin sage;
Ever-Griffin, never-true,
Nothing wounds nor touches you;
Griffin murmurs No offense —
Has a Griffin got no sense?
Griflin-brother, kin of mine,
I have learned the countersign,
I will join you on your stone,
Both together, both alone;
Neither young and neither old,
Neither hot and neither cold;
Tell me, Griflin, tell once more —
What, O what, are Griffins for?