Across the marble tiled floor. The relic
Rests in its place, happy, relaxed, and warm,
Contented to be so infidelic:
Because its shape is wrong, wrangled from stone,
Carved with an infinite affectation,
Then flattered and raised upon crimson throne
So far above its orderly station.
The thief's hands grasp around its graven root,
Disgraceful in her low and common touch
To treat its stature as prosaic loot
Shameful for one who bears its beauty such.
Alas, stolen, scalped and hawked the relic was,
Despite its many glaring, awful flaws.