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When he is a young man
He stands head thrown slightly back, 
Tie straight, proud flag flying high on the ships main mast
He is full of ideas, thoughts and the deepest sense of self and selflessness. 
How will he conquer all that weight that he feels now?
Hasn’t he been handed a fire sword, flaming with the naivete of 19?
When he is in his middle age, 
His head is not quite bent, 
Tie askew, flag flying slightly sadly, somewhat tattered but bold colors, nonetheless. 
His ideas are baking, he knows and deepens the pursuit of knowledge,
He fights valiantly to conquer, and he has almost won,
He goes home to a little house with a little wife, he is content, until
He remembers that burning sting of the flaming sword, how it bit and blundered him
Youth is not for the faint of heart, the scars that it will carve,
When he is an old man,
 His head rests soft like a burning star on dying beds of iron hulls
Ships he stave, ships he starved, their flags upon his walls,
His ideas are forged in walls of gold, he does not know it is malleable still,
He has fought valiantly and won for now, he fades to rest and the great beyond
His little house, his little wife, they have left him now content evermore,
His legacy of the burning, stinging scars from flaming swords, 
His youth stands to tell the tale of him, the white American male.

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