Plato’s shadow that he saw
Was not a god at all,
But one carved man quite real
Who stood man-made ideal,
And the shadow that he cast
Scared off Plato to the past,
Where in caverns of the mind
He made wisdom for the blind,
Proving shadows on the wall
Were more real than what we call
Common sense of touch and sight,
That to seeing men seem right,
But are really off the mark
When you’re fearing through half dark,
So must bind your hands and eyes
To not let in ant lies,
Yet the things that bind you round
Are not real, nor really sound,
And you’ll never guess what’s true
Until Plato whisp’s to you,
For he’s ghost of every shade
In his fail-osophic trade,
The King