Tears of a Silver Medalist

We who breathe are oft inclined

To be of less than perfect mind

And, in such state, to raise a fuss

About how fortune frowns on us

For we have all our limbs and eyes,

Have yet to meet a grim demise,

Have bellies full and blankets warm

And lives absent from grievous harm,

Have water fresh on every street

And fertile earth beneath our feet.

We fear no predatory foe,

And yet our hearts are filled with woe;

We see our neighbor’s joy and sigh,

“They have a bit more stuff than I…”