A man’s a thing of reason,
Of logic, sense and thought;
He knows what he must do,
he knows what he must not.
A lucky man, long-sheltered
From Urth’s capricious whim;
He hails my verse’s wisdom
Because it speaks of him.
The rest of us have knelt
To pain’s instructive hand,
And learned that naught but chance
Winnows beast from man.
In red we are all sculpted
The same beneath the skin;
muscle, bone, and blood,
an animal’s within.
If yours is safely buried,
’tis little cause for pride;
no wound’s yet cut you deep
to loose it from inside.
