He toils; Gnarled hands grope the tilth, Baked-black hide caked in filth: He's soiled. He bolts; O'er the fence, thro' Master's grounds, Straight into the waiting hounds: He halts. He wails; Bulging lips swell with rage, Thrashing limbs to break his cage: He fails. He stoops; White palms clenched about the bars, As Master's whip inflicts new scars: He droops. He toils; Gnarled hands grope the tilth, Baked-black hide caked in filth: He's soiled.