They think we do not know of humour,
That we have no sense of the absurd.
That we have no joy in being silly,
And do not like to play with words.

They think we think of things momentous,
And ponder secrets of the stars,
And hoard imagined slights and troubles,
Clutched tight inside our ashen hearts.

They think we murder without mercy,
And take revenge a thousand fold,
They think we do not love our children,
Just treasure secrets never told.

They think we do not relish flight
Or laugh up in the darkling night,
Or teach our children nonsense games,
Or tickle them,
With warm and tender flickering flames.