Discourse on philosophies
And fanciful tirades
The impression at first is dynamite
But with time that too fades

Surrounded by walls of legends
They gaze down, disappointed
At their so called follower
Who hath himself thus anointed

The follower sits, head lowly bowed
Ashamed of his cowardly posing
Courage, which nature so sparsely endowed
In him did not deign transposing

Mighty words, empty of deeds
His life’s tales do describe
The lord has his jokes and on this man
He aimeth his cruelest jibe

Still he fights on in his own small way
By force of habit, not from courage
He deserveth not his goodly friends
Who form his vital entourage

The wall gods do spite him
As much as he them loves
He lacks the iron fist needed
Beneath the silken glove

He striveth hard to do them good
Some justice of primitive form
But fail he does, time and again
Unable to weather the storm

For a storm it is that batters his senses
A relentless wave of assaults
And resilience, or its lack thereof
He knows to be his prime fault

Down he falls, in front of his Gods,
Lay prone, never to rise
The man who never finds his feet
Can never hope to claim the prize

John Lennon, Jim Morrison
Jimmy Page and Kurt Cobain
Scoff at this weakling’s incompetence
To withstand the littlest of pain

“What Soldier art thou?” They ask him,
“To thus defile our name
We need fighters of fearless countenance
Not mice, meek and tame

And here lieth thou, weak wimp of a man
Cowering in the face of mere numbers
Stand up and fight, uncouth being!
Lest we put you to eternal slumber”

But try as he might
He could not fight
The charge of the Light Brigade

And so in hell
At the toil of the bell
With deserters he was laid


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