We wonder if we'll have what it takes
to live words we've just learned to spell.
Like poetry's Parnassian flakes
from some old oracular swell,
they fall on our inner Alpen lakes
and the shanties wherein we dwell.
But our deeds indeed can render them fakes -
worn trinkets to dress and sell.
And the buyers are often wily snakes
who conscript them to the fell.
We'd like to have them and eat them - these cakes -
if the truth be its to tell.
We're much content to ignore the stakes.
If you trip on one, just yell!
Amidst the worm-rotten, wooden drakes,
we'll find you with tackle and bell.
Yes, we're given a finite sum of breaks
from birth to our final knell.
And it’s true time buries one's mistakes.
But it buries much else as well.