A million subtle put-downs
In a thousand different ways
A wasted opportunity
Career path gone astray
A couple of promotions too
That went to someone else
With not as much experience
Nor vision, knowledge, skills
Adjusting one’s ambition
‘Til it fits within the norm
A lukewarm lover’s mission
To accept what still goes on
We breed another row
Of middle-rankers in our turn
Forgetting what we wanted
Was the change we couldn’t earn
There is nothing so special
Needing ribbon or bow
If a child is successful
On what merits they show
There’s no label, no button
Not a banner in sight
If they work for a living
Study hard late at night
All their limbs are still present
And their brain seems to work
They are dutiful, pleasant
And ignored by the world
No, there’s really no reason
We should praise to the skies
Every triumphal season
For a sharp pair of eyes
There’s no faculty lacking
That’s obstructing their view
So no need to start clapping
When their talent shines through
If we over-encourage
Then we risk that one day
They may pluck up the courage
To feel grateful and say
That their motive for trying
To improve on their best
Was the people believing
They would rise to the test
The spoiled child is a great burden, and one which does not know how to carry others. The weight of the world’s perceived expectation may prove too much for those narrow shoulders. The very mass of their own fancies may yet oppress them, and, shamefaced and fearful, they crumble, unable to comprehend the sudden power vacuum that occurs when their providers are no longer there to do the hard work on their behalf. It is sadly our own unwitting folly that renders those we have need of, those who were born to lead us toward a better future, into lazy, bitter, faithless followers. Something must change, or with the weight of their burdens, the blindly oppressed will be driven into their graves by those they work so hard to support.
And she wept long and hard
For the love she had lost.
She felt keenly her heart
Must feel keenly the loss.
But she never did pause
To ponder her fate
For ’tis better to mourn
Than consider the wait.
On the other hand, he,
Not accustomed to pain
Chose to keep his good cheer
And think on it again.
Thus they grew far apart
In their aiming to keep
Their love like a river
Flowing slowly and deep.
Now her eyes are quite dry
As he looks on, bemused.
Little time has gone by
And yet he is refused?
For the clock has run down
Wanting winding, you see.
And where once was love
Lies a strange fantasy.
Katherine Shirley 