ويْح الكِتابَة مِن شَيْخٍ هَبنَّقَةٍ

يلْقَى العُيُون برأَسٍ مُخْهُ رارُ

Alas for the scribbling of a feeble old man

Whose bleary eyes see but the mists before them

ومُنْتِنِ الرِّيحِ إِنْ نَاجَيتَهُ أَبداً

كأَنَّما مات في خَيْشُومِهِ فارُ

And whose rancid breath, if conversed with at all

Is like the last gasps of a rat up his nostril