Pinckney
Dines
Alone
On
Soup
Made
From
A
Marrow
Bone.
One
Bowl,
One
Spoon,
And
He
Fills
Up,
His
Cracked
Cup
A
Symbol
Of
His
Loss,
As
He
Reflects
Upon
The
Thimble
Full
Of
Peace
He
May
One
Day
Release,
But
Soon,
His
Frugal
Meal
Is
Finished,
None
Of
His
Grievances
Diminished,
And
Puts
The
Barren
Bone
Of
His
Contention
Away,
To
Simmer
For
Another
Day.