The crowd will cheer the gentlest leaf,
the one that rustles with no grief,
no spine to crack, no bark to bite,
just something limp that they shape right.

They claim it's "wisdom", "balanced tone",
but truth is simpler and widely known,
it's easier ruling someone who's prone
incapable of thinking on their own.

Strange how heads of air do float the best,
and all hollow minds rise with the rest,
not for effort, not for drive,
but simply drifting keeps them alive.

And those who choose the weightless way,
get carried far by those who sway,
it's funny how the winds will lift,
a soul that's little more than a drift.

So of course they chose the safest bet,
the one no storm has ever met,
No fire, no grit, no sharpened thought,
just soemthing fragile that's easily bought.

But not with coin, no, but with control,
a quiet, plient, patient soul,
And so the chorus sings their praise,
but only for how well they know he'll obey.

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Mayan, in the year 991 AF.