He ducked and danced, shrouded in mystery
His thrice blasted chance had made him history
He had toiled to live over the years
And now his life was naught save tears.
All his friends, family, acquaintance
Each relation ended in discontinuance
The titles he earned and the respect he’d command
Seemed like faint memories from a distant promenade.
Every Sunday visit to the Church,
All the hymns he’d sung in mirth
Now, when even the choirs seem to mock his fate
The search for God seems another cruel bait.
Oh, the fortune he had amassed
All the hurdles he had passed
Seem but inconsequential detail
Of a present, compared to its past, pale.
This moribund tale of a sorry fate
Encapsulated by the aureate bounds of second rate
Looks to be a waste of rhythm and rhyme
A sad use of a poet’s time.
But remember O Reader that every Lore of Might
Has its beginnings in a despairing night
And all recounting of Sad Luck’s tale
End in a Victorious Hero, Evil’s Fail.
Be sure to note this lesson in guise
Of this sad tale of Man’s demise
For when you’re stuck in an endless quagmire
To learn the lesson in defeat, you’ll desire.