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.