Revisionist Poetry – The Lay of Copernicus Wiffledown (in iambic tetrameter), v.5

The town still speaks his gentle name,
a man of coin and quiet care.
He kept a pouch of folded things,
and sent them out like softened prayer.

They called him Scrooge when snow was thick,
not for a sting, but for his lists.
He tallied ribbons, numbered bows,
and waited for his chosen wrists.

That once his pockets had been bare,
the hunger left a study cold;
so he would gather little lights
and trade that absence for the hold.

At last he set the pouch aside,
and offered it to common hands.
They named a lane to mark his step,
and kept his name when lamps went dim.