1. Had you not been a scribe with fortune’s grace,
With elongated head and stately face,

2. You wouldn’t dine on crumbs when weaned from milk,
Nor on scraps that you snatch in your haste,

3. Like the son of Mas’ada, the carpenter,
Who writes at Abbasids’ abode,

4. And feeds on guests’ food like a greedy hound,
That sneaks in homes searching for its feed.