The Dour-Glower
The dance of the dilettantes hasn't many steps.
It isn't meant to be remembered, nor to cause upset;
it's simply meant to get us through, like breakfast spent in bed.
It gives us comfort just to know our words have just been read.
And if a noble Dour-Glower 'gins to shake his head,
that's just fine and dandy, we'll tuck him safe and sound,
and read to him instead ---
Once, I met a Dour-glower walking through an orchard
"How dare they call you apple trees;
you're only whisps of bark!
You haven't many leaves,
and you're little more than seeds!
You think you're special with your flowers,
yet I've never seen you fruit!" screamed the Dour-glower.
What could the saplings do?
All of it was true.
They couldn't drop their leaves,
nor tear apart their petals.
But as the Dour-glower took his leave,
the sun above shone true.
The soil of the field was just as sweet
and craddled every root.
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