By Alex Perry
Any man may make himself appears wise.
The dulls follow, thrown the dice
Like Sisyphus to a six-sided stone.
Waiting from someone a thrown bone.
The smart, the other way, walks.
And he knows the stupids may stalk.
He pays the price of wine, the only kind one.
Yet he drinks and burns the bun.
The torch passed to his able son
To light his way lead by none.
No longer can he hear the piper's flute
Nor the mice that chase the wrong loots.