His peasant parents killed themselves
To let their darling leave a stingy soil
For any of those smart professions which
Encourage shallow breathing, and grow rich.
The pressure of their fond ambition
Their shy and country-loving child afraid
No sensible career was good enough,
Only a hero could deserve such love.
So here he was without maps or
A hundred miles from any decent town;
The desert glared into his blood-shot eyes;
The silence roared displeasure: looking
He saw the shadow of an Average Man
Attempting the exceptional, and ran.