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You must know them:

They were the weathered ones,

Been-there, skewered-'em sorts,

Long past rancor and looking to

Something beyond the night

And the hill.

Quite fitting they should share

A bit of smuggled desert magic

With the poor bastard who

Didn't want to be king either.

Three Etruscan grunts,

A pot of (wink) vinegar

And a happen-to-have-one-here sponge.

The trickle of human kindness

Flows much farther through time

Than the torrents of history.

- David W. Mitchell

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