Bright lad, you only speak with your left hand Your penchant to the podium has its worth, And I can sense Polaris in your quill— Of ever-gleaming ink that drawn the earth. Descendant of the noble words afar— The distant metaphors of man that lived— Within its very own abode of hope And pride above the zenith ends of stream? That tasted bitterness from previous test Upon the verdict of the hourglass-sand, Heads up my Pisces born, your accolade— Has been bestowed (can’t be retaken) Walk on 'pon obsidian stones of grit, ‘Cause status has to re-assert its goal.
