Casualties II
We see them fly before us, quick and lean,
Whilst we are hobbled by our stuttered wing,
Too slow to situate above the mean
Where value we may to our brethren bring.
They pat our head and say we are so bright
Whilst sneering at the paucity of wit
Our childish hymns, cooked quick with wisdom light,
Make heavy with the truths we counterfeit.
Yet may a wing be mended, slick and fast?
Able to catch the wind of wünderkind?
Or are we destined to be left ‘til last
And in that mired place some comfort find.
We can but try to fashion what we lack
And hope one day to catch the canny pack.