The troubadour caressed his tunes
And all before him they did hear
The sad escape from twixt his lips
To many eyes brought tender tear.

And turning to those sensile few
Forbade them he to cry
Thou shalt not weep at such sweet sound
But on thine own self thee rely.

But troubadour now all alone
Falls to the grave so freshly made
He rails at all and drowns in tears
The final vain-filled price he paid.

©Joe Wilson – Too proud…2015

In the style of O. Henry after reading again ‘Vanity’