Like a daisy,
Rising up to the
Hot, yellowed sun, only
To wither once the
Sun loses its luster;
The ship moves continuously
Through the dark waters,
Like molasses, yet
Not quite so fast,
Not quite so quick;
All hands feel the
Sting of ages past,
Feel the burden of
Well-worn decks and
Well-traveled seas;
The Captain looks ahead
To the end of his
Voyage, where he could
Accept the good graces
Of countless souls;
Yet those who seek out
Lesser lives, seem to
Suffer more at the
Hands of great men,
Those Heroic men;
A job for lesser folk,
Who deserve lesser privileges,
An excuse for travesties,
Wrought on by great men,
Originated by great men
July 4, 1997
