Here you will find the Poem On Ink of poet Jonathan Swift
I am jet black, as you may see, The son of pitch and gloomy night: Yet all that know me will agree, I'm dead except I live in light. Sometimes in panegyric high, Like lofty Pindar, I can soar; And raise a virgin to the sky, Or sink her to a pocky whore. My blood this day is very sweet, To-morrow of a bitter juice; Like milk, 'tis cried about the street, And so applied to different use. Most wondrous is my magic power: For with one colour I can paint; I'll make the devil a saint this hour, Next make a devil of a saint. Through distant regions I can fly, Provide me but with paper wings; And fairly show a reason why There should be quarrels among kings: And, after all, you'll think it odd, When learned doctors will dispute, That I should point the word of God, And show where they can best confute. Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats: 'Tis I that must the lands convey, And strip their clients to their coats; Nay, give their very souls away.
