Pride Of The County Poem by Jack Worthington

Some are born to love and others for destiny
In rare cases however there is another category
He was born not to love or to rule, or to follow
A bell without a clapper he exists to ring hollow.

Hills are there to divert water, clouds to pour it down
Trees are fallen day by day for wood to build a town
Everything functions for its purpose except for he
His only function, his only role, is to merely be.

He exists for nothing, yet his presence pays the bills
Morning noon and night are a playground for his thrills
Whichever door he enters a voice carries his tune
There you are my dear! Such a sweet afternoon!

Never stopping to think, to reflect or to review
He has no need, for in every hand was something new
His role is prefect specimen, of both form and ideal
An existence such as this is reserved for the envied few.