Poets can hand out
Parts of their souls like pamphlets
I'm not that selfless

They tell her she is talented
with special skills to spare
they say she’s got a winning smile
and sunbeams in her hair

She would end her skill today
and suffer every defeat
she would cut off all her hair
if she could just be sweet

They tell her that she’s popular
that she could win a crowd
they say she fills the room with cheer
her friends all laugh aloud

She would be shy as a mouse
quiet and discrete
she’d give up all of her fake friends
if she could just be sweet

They say she wears the greatest clothes
she has the greatest style
they say she has a pretty face
the boys would chase for miles

She would empty her whole closet
throw her clothes out in the street
she would wear an ugly mask
if she could just be sweet

They say she dances with such grace
she sings in perfect tune
her elegance is unrivaled
she makes the whole room swoon

She would trip upon herself
and sound like an old goat’s bleat
she would lose her every limb
if she could just be sweet

So many things they call her
talented, beautiful, witty,
if she could not merely be sweet
then what’s the point of pretty?

The compliments she gets
from everyone she meets
all of them are true and nice,
but none of them are “sweet.”

The stranger entered through the gate
He walked down Crimson Street
He stopped, and all around him wait
He heard the ceasing feet

The stranger said, “All who are near
Gather, hear my cry
I have an elixir here
Drink, and never die”

The people looked at him and thought,
“This man must be lost”
Then one said, “Can it be bought?
How much does it cost?”

The stranger said “The price
Is lower than you’d think
The requirements are concise
Quite simply, drink”

The people said “This can’t be true!
Surely it is fake!
He cannot bring us immortality
If we simply partake”

“Hear me, please!” he cried aloud
The people stared in despise
He was swept up by the crowd
Violence met his eyes

The curtain of mercy we will today
Over this scene bring down
It sufficeth me to say
They chased him out of town

Outside the city gate he sobbed
And wrung his beaten hands
He was bruised, abused, robbed
So he went to a different land

Fifty years, few more had passed
Until he returned again
He hadn’t aged, this old outcast
Though he lacked a single friend

The people, old and weary now,
From fifty years and five,
Saw his face and shouted, “How!
“How is he still alive?”

“The elixir” he said, his voice soft
And trembling with pain
He thought of these people oft
Though they thought him insane

For their frail bodies he could not
Help but shed a tear
They refused before, and now they rot
And still death they fear

Their shaking voices he heard
And his heart did sink
“It’s so simple,” the man whispered,
“They only had to drink”