A cry of the Humble

A swan with a golden beak is looking up with pride,

Haystacks in the fields are crawling under sky,

But which is more pure?

There can’t be good or bad,

Because if it were,

We wouldn’t know it.

And when something isn’t known,

It basically isn’t, right?

No.

Hiding in obscurity,

The kindness appears,

Like roses in the wild.

There were three,

Three lines,

Three humans.

One of them was moonchild, in its innocence.

Second was She, with beauty to rule.

Third was Mr. Dirty-pants, not noble, but good.

Who was the purest?

The cleanest of them three?

Who should be known?

Dirty-pants should rose to fame,

Moonchild to just very man,

And she, she should be forgotten.

And, oh look!

It’s the other way!
The virtue is dead, anyway.

What have we learned?

It’s, we shouldn’t be.

No one ever should.

We've nothing but to live our very lives,

To not care ‘bout the others’ vice, is,

To be the best we can.

A good man.