Ego First

Ten women in a leaking boat
Did wail upon the water.
The falls were near, it did appear
That none was his dear daughter.

But there, behind, within a wave,
She held a branchlet tight.
He just had time to save from grave
The ten, or daughter bright.

Beside him men were shouting, “Throw!
Throw the line and save them all!”
He swung it swift, he gave it lift,
And—on her hand she felt it fall.

He pulled, she strove, right in to shore;
The boat of ten was seen no more.
An angry “Selfish!” rattled ’bout,
But he was right and had no doubt.

At work next day men stood aloof;
They’d thought him mean, now they had proof.
He’d never spoken palsy word
And gave no comfort to the herd.

“Oh, he is smart and does his best
To keep our jobs from moving west,
But he’s an ego of foul breath
Who’d let ten women go to death.”

He’s left that town, with daughter, gay;
He’s headed west to make more pay.
His happiness, and her, come first,
New challenges for challenge thirst.

The world is wide for men of pride,
For ego-choices they decide,
And each man’s life is on Increase
When his dear love he puts not least.

The town of Selfless still is there,
The factory is rusty, bare;
The men blame ego for their loss
And, boasting suffering, bear their cross.

“We’re better now that he is gone,
We’re closer knit, together drawn.
We’ll take the welfare that we earn
And may his selfish spirit burn!”

There was a fire the other night,
‘Twas set by someone reeling, tight;
Now all that’s left is Selfless ash
And people wandering through the trash.

The world is narrow, spare and bleak,
For men who don’t their highest seek,
Who don’t love Ego as their light
And wail while they sink out of sight.

He’s foreman, now, of hardy crew;
They’re ripping mountains swift;
They aim to do some fracking new
And earn each one his gift–

His gift of pay—a profit trade–
For work that’s sharp and fast,
And each man, like a steel blade,
His future carves to last.

The daughter, she of courage, fair,
Is sculpting men of mind.
Already one stands high in air—
Oh, nothing weak or blind!

But o’er the gorge he spreads his hands
His face with joy is bright;
He seems to sing of happy lands
And ego’s selfish might!

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