A cliff stood high above the deep,
An eagle nested there in sleep.
Below, a donkey grazed alone,
One soared in pride; the other moaned.
“Let the eagle think,” the wise might say,
“His honor’s flight is his to sway.
But me? A donkey, kicked and hit,
Life tastes as sour as cranberry grit—
All over just a single letter—
He’s ‘R,’ I’m ‘S,’—what could be better?”
“I’ll rise,” said he, “and if I try,
I’ll soar as well, as high as sky!”
He climbed the crag, he brayed, he leapt,
All eyes upon him, wide and swept.
At last he flew! His dream took wing,
The night fell calm, a hush did cling.
Then came the doctor, Professor Grach,
Grumbling, muttering, a cautious batch:
“For your folly, a lesson you’ve earned,
Thirty bones broken, respect you’ve not learned.
The eagle hunts, claws, tears with might,
Yet he is made to fly, to rule the height.
You, dear donkey, toil below,
Your place is work, not aerial show.”
Moral? Ah, need a moral still?
Why must you pry, insist, or drill?
Where have you seen, in all the lands,
That those who follow morals’ commands
Live well, die honored, peaceful, serene?
Sometimes the wisest fools remain unseen.