If he was everything they thought he’d be,
He’d be a better man than he turned out:
A waste of such potentiality,
So many demons never put to rout
So lade with talent, yet so much unused,
He’s satisfied himself with merely some;
A garden that’s neglected, or abused,
A summer promised that will never come
And if upon this earth you stumble on
Him, as he goes, be-slouched along his way;
You’ll catch the whiff of something almost gone,
Of distant hopes that long since had their day
So virtue is its own reward, they tell:
And vice is its own punishment, as well
