A Propitiatory Heritage

  He was a certain way, you know the type,
  A born peacemaker he —
  As everywhere were contests, wars, and strife,
  He kept on, placidly —

  Unnoticed by the popular,
  Unheeded by the crowd:
  A wibbly sort of Oliver
  Who never spoke too loud —

  He had a certain dream (you know the one)
  Of color wheels and glass.
  Of holding hands in carnivals of gold
(It never came to pass)

  Another type of genre mystery
  Who merits no analysis,
  But who would never stir the pot,
  Or turn a wheel
  That wasn’t

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