Already lost, the sour cynic seeks
to justify his barren bottom line.
Bereft of joy and awe, his world reeks
of moldy dreams decaying at the shrine
his Innocence abandoned when his Shame
found evident the too transparent fact,
his soft-toed hopes in Ego's shoes were lame,
to kick-up actuality exact.
That anyone can swagger, even you,
and rout the phantom foe in verbal kill,
makes honor even rarer daring do
and valor, strength beyond assassin's skill.
Now skeptical and spent, where is your starch
to hoist your rocky load of life and march?