The world suffers its well-meaning fools,
who often jump in before sensibility rules.
Afraid to confront what they know not,
they carry their protection like a frock.
Steeled by their conviction from deep within,
they go forth and proselytize to free from sin.
The fact that they don't know a nit from a gnat.
Only bolsters their faith in the lean from the fat.
Relying on ancient truisms long passed down,
before the mysterious, they flock and fawn.
The cure for all ills is right in their grasp.
They cure themselves with it until their last gasp.
Well, I've walked on water after a sharp freeze,
and flown through the air with the greatest of ease.
I've held my breath longer than most men should.
I've risen from my deathbed and walked on wood.
The palaces of kings are built by humble tools.
The highness surrounded by well-meaning fools.
Photo Courtesy University
of South Florida
Read War's End, the Novel
Copyright 2006 © Ronald W. Hull