Not to forego ego is a selfish man’s snore
The cocksure feel right, right at each door
If one counts the numbers for every score
a question looms large over prejudice’s decor
Romance may be all the crowing of wayward boys
who can ruthlessly shoot their temporary toys
But each decoy is a noise for want of character
A vulture has no culture but is just a squalid sculpture
If you are the brave cyclist in virtue’s velodrome
who stopped to help the athlete fallen to the floor
The medal doesn’t compare to the act that speaks a tome
You were the last one to finish, but the first to come home
Though you didn’t wear the jersey but the loser’s pinafore
the winner is recorded news, but the unsung is folklore
There will be a troubadour who will tell of the real hero
And with the lyric of mythology, posterity will know
montes-musings.blog 
nice one
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