The Bat Is Dun With Wrinkled Wings

THE BAT is dun with wrinkled wings
 Like fallow article,
And not a song pervades his lips,
 Or none perceptible.
His small umbrella, quaintly halved,
 Describing in the air
An arc alike inscrutable,—
 Elate philosopher!
Deputed from what firmament
 Of what astute abode,
Empowered with what malevolence
 Auspiciously withheld.
To his adroit Creator
 Ascribe no less the praise;
Beneficent, believe me,
 His eccentricities.
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