He didn’t know where he could go

He just stood alone on the shore.

The boat was swamped and the oar was lost

The fog made his vision poor.

Stuck in the muck

And all out of luck

He’d time to wonder what was in store.


He didn’t walk across the marsh

For muddy clothes are unbecoming.

Help would surely turn and run

When they saw him coming.

’Twould be just chance and happenstance

If he were to cross the great expanse

To better ground without succumbing.


He didn’t swim into the water

For he couldn’t see the water’s end.

How far could he get before he lost

The strength on which he’d depend?

With a final stroke life would loosen its yoke

And with his driving spirit broke

To the depths he would descend.


He didn’t walk the water’s edge

For one shore just leads to another.

It’d be a waste of his precious time

To trade one situation for the other.

With a look around all he found

Was the water lapping the ground

And he gave forth the despondent utter:


“Whose man am I that I should be

Without a worthwhile destiny?

What purpose does it serve


To stand alone on this muddy strand

Sinking in the filthy sand

Lacking motivation’s nerve?”


There he stood slowly sinking

Into the quick and muddy shore.

First to the top of his polished boots

Then up to the fancy pants he wore.

Then past his shirt went the rising dirt

And soon there was no way to divert

The destiny that was in store.