Poor misguided modern man
Defines himself by boss’ plan
Boxes in identity
So his true self he cannot see
Climbing up another’s ladder
Or his own—it does not matter
In the climbing is the fall
It’s depth, not height, which makes us tall
Look down upon the aimless play
That makes our children’s laugh so gay
And remember they know their “me”
Without a title or degree
So reach into your child bright core
And unhinge your labeled door
You are you, you’ll always be
And that’s so many wondrous things to me