We wend out ways, we common folk.
We win no prizes, gather no acclaim, but from our kids.
It is for others to discover: Dark energies in space,
hydrothermal vents, inhibitory genes.
Thus we, who are never the rage that films stars are,
nor whose photograph will ever embellish some tabloid’s
tale of heroic deeds or salacious sin,
or be quoted, in telephonic polls
as to what to invest your savings, if any, in,
or whether the Met should return that Grecian goddess, or those bowls,
and it’s not that we feel we do not rate,
(Unlike Miniver Cheevy, we won’t bemoan our fate,
nor bury our brains in that bottle of wine. One glass will do.)
we are what we are; we do our jobs, whatever they are;
we try to get along with our wives; we wend our ways.