The Pauper And The Columns Poem by Kevin Maroney

Once there was a pauper, in a great spat,
and as he was running, he tripped and fell flat.
His only chance was to roll away, into a field white,
and as he saw the columns there, he was impressed, quite.

Little Franklin sat agape, as he saw them shimmer,
each one a giant shape, towering as high as they glimmered.
Why thought he, I could live like a king, if only they'd all be mine,
I could sell each one, and pack them agone, with how wealthy they shine!

But as he touched, they burst to life,
and he with guilty hands astretched,
they struck him down and turned to him,
let me tell you how we were fletched.

The bowsmith of our magesty set his arrow true,
hoped us to stand the test of time, and that we have, too.
Now you come and hop along, hoping to make a profit,
we understand the condition you're in, but hope you'll first listen and sit.

Long ago far and wide, was a land carved, contrived,
of the greatest possible greens and grays you ever spied,
and none could match such magesty, cept us, as we so tried,
Much longer would we be here so, had not we struck you as you lie.

Each of us is the last, each has past the test,
yet many more before there were, each of all the best.
We compete not for a prize,
but instead to live we prophesize,
that to stand the test of time is the greatest test,
of who indeed is the best.

The poor man looked ungrounded,
yet his fears were unfounded,
for they wouldn't kill him where he lay,
they took no joy in petty flay.

The message he took for naught was this:
Wisest come as wisest go,
to pass time's test, each must pass the flow.