The first stick I bought,
Was on a dreary morrow.
As I walked, I worried over the street,
Cobbled and cracked,
Soused by spring showers.
Terrified of slip or trip,
I stepped into a somber shop,
Seeking to soothe my stress.
As if by a djinn's desire,
I got my wish.
A cane, carved and ornate,
Stricken with lust,
I gained the cane,
At the cost of my purse.
Unhindered, I conquered the cobbles.
Too late, did I recall,
That beauty, does not bequeath utility.
The cane,...