If I ever doubt the level of excellence
then me and myself would not be I

born and bred to forge and smelt adversity
not for adversity to forge me

my title removes me from common fields
where the serfs dig and sow seeds

they toil to harvest hand to empty mouths
rueing their lot in reflection of my golden sheen

cry cry freedom to your noisy shamans in red rags
go lay with your mothers who abides your stunted hoes

your acrid incantations removes no bark from the oak
in its shade you can wash your rags and hide your nakedness

some were made to run with tigers
some are born to be led and told how to be and what to do