Little superman shies away at school,
Knowing not how his contemporaries to rule.
He keeps his head down, acts dumb, and plays the fool.
Klein Ubermensch frets about his Schuler,
Dutifully arranging his pencil and his ruler,
He doesn't have an outlet for his lactating lunar sadness.
***
He thinks about his gladness, how happy he is to be himself.
Because of the cruelty of his classmates, he sees only little demonic elves.
Why waste good time and effort, developing the self ?
In a world of such pettiness, he is already on the top shelf.
There is a poet, a philosopher trapped inside.
The world is not ready, its safer his virtue to hide.
To watch himself decay, through the formative years.
Deaf to the calling of fate, the callow corn has no ears.
"But when I come to think it, do I blame 'Satan's little minions'?
No, no; it wasn't they who restrained my little pinions.
It was those who never taught me to nurture my deepest orisons.
Never to meditate, never to feel, never to enjoy, never to relax;
Never to utilize my desires, and push my abilities to the Max!
Too bogged down with routine and homework,
To ever become anything more than simple clerk!"
Life has no prior meaning, it has to be sovereignly willed.
His heart has lost its rudder, but the world will not be stilled.
What will be the result, of these piling arrears?-
The growing guilt for neglect in so many areas-
When he finally gets the bill delivered in the post,
'tis mostly malice he entertains the most.
Scything through sentiments of success,
Giving himself over to rank duress.
Berating the bloody-minded sanguinity,
That for so long substituted vital spontaneity.
A lion roars, but devours
only itself. 'tis only April showers.
His true untapped powers,
Finally arise like triumphant towers.
But the old bullies in the playground,
Have meanwhile built their own villainous mound.
For his residual syncopating sadness,
They now call him new names: 'mentally unsound'.
Magnifying his ills a hundred fold,
With poison pills new and old.
Constant surveillance to make sure he never breaks the mould.
Or leaves Dr. Frankenstein's faithless feverish fold.
Against hearts so empty and cold,
What use he has now lit a bulb so beautifully bright and bold ?
***
Little superman, because he never began to cultivate his soul,
Learning badly how over their eyes the wool to pull,
Knows not how his contemporaries to rule.