To Sore

There sat a man,

Who can do everything you can,

And truly even more,

But came a day he said he’s sore.

He laid in bed from dawn to dusk,

A seemingly bare husk.

For’d he ignore his woe he’d see:

That this is not what he’d to be!

There laid a man,

Who can do everything you can.

He once did have a hope.

He wished to carve the mountains tops,

To built a giant slope!

Yet, instead he laid in bed!

Yes of course he’s always fed.

Thought would he stand up high and tall,

He would not fall!

For’d if he ignore his woe he’d see:

That this is not what he’d to be!

Now look at you, d’you have a plan?

For you too could do everything you can.

Everything that could the man,

And truly even more,

Instead you come to say you’re sore.