Haven't we always been so zealous,
In extolling some who've lived before us?
Outsized, larger-than-life memorials,
Our mnemonics in mortar for their ideals.
Theirs is the path we wish to tread,
Theirs are the words we hold so very sacred,
And we preserve them for posterity,
Standing them in every hamlet, town, and city.
Every heirloom commands a price,
More often than not a supreme sacrifice;
And so, the lesser lives we do mine,
As we exalt a human to the immortal line.
Yet, might not a personage deified,
If awake, look around, and be truly petrified?
Might not a saintly king shed tears,
Having robbed so many of their healthy years?
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