Did the brute of Neanderthal,
as he lay awake in dark of night,
pray for mighty mammoth’s fall
so he’d rise in ranks and be paid more
in higher rocks for higher walls?

Did he think, the Viking man,
as he plundered England’s shores,
of team cohesion, project plans
or the hurt his raids might do
to the image of the brand?

Did that Templar Knight of yore,
as the pilgrim road he trod,
heavy find his shield and sword
and fret if he’d make enough
revenue to please the Lord?

Where have the Snowdens of yesteryear gone?
Where’s that whistle which once was blowing?
Who stifled my protests, once sharp and shrill?
And where’s the hero I longed to be,
standing true on highest hill?

Such questions make poor company
to the weary and worn, little me;
and beyond my door they stalk, sickly and sore:
all my hounds, crying for war.