Poetry of a Ascended Being

My Son

"My son"

What am I to say about my child
Who often left me with a smile
How could he fail the test
He bore our family crest
We may be peasants
Yet we always try to be pleasant
We all try to be Sir's
Despite being but mere curs
Knighted by our Lord
We cut the cord
Binding us to this plane
To others we seem insane
We are but devotion
In motion
So I sit on my heavenly stoop
Watching my son eat his soup
He was on his break
Sitting by the lake
A member of the Royal Guard
Listening to a nearby bard
Who sung of a winged beast
Who made a feast
Upon a devilish priest
Who would do away with peace
A laugh was cast at the thought
Not a soul the story bought
I still couldn't help but laugh
My son was a product of his craft
A warrior through and through
Who then took a sip of his brew
That's my boy
All he'll every bring me is joy