لَولا تَكونُ كَكاتِبٍ لَكَ رَبعَةٌ

يَقضي الحَوائِجَ مُستَطيلَ الراسِ

Had you not been a scribe with fortune’s grace,

With elongated head and stately face,

لَم تَغدُ بِالمَلبونِ عِندَ فِطامِهِ

يَوماً وَلا بِمُطَجَّنَ القُلقاسِ

You wouldn’t dine on crumbs when weaned from milk,

Nor on scraps that you snatch in your haste,

أَو كَاِبنِ مَسعَدَةَ الكَريمِ نِجارُهُ

بَيتِ الكِتابَةِ في بَني العَبّاسِ

Like the son of Mas’ada, the carpenter,

Who writes at Abbasids’ abode,

يَغدو عَلى أَضيافِهِ مُستَطعِماً

كَالكَلبِ يَأكُلُ في بُيوتِ الناسِ

And feeds on guests’ food like a greedy hound,

That sneaks in homes searching for its feed.