Mr. Fiddle's Fiddlling Curse

"I would never betray my pillars of hope!"

said he

"I am a man of my words."

Mr. Fiddle dilly-dallying

under the pretty willow tree

Fiddling with his words and their worth. 

"Aye, we understand,"

said the sprites

"For you often say,

You are noble and kind!

And all the trees long for your embrace,

And all the sprites help to keep you alive."

Mr. Fiddle bursting with pride

But the willow tree hides it with her branches.

Fiddling with his integrity, 

Mr. Fiddle gets second chances.

"Oh, Mr. Fiddle,

You have become strong and wise.

Let it not fool you or others,

for your growth may feed you lies.

For the yeast must first bloom,

before it is made to bread.

And ye know best,

To have bread first, 

Before the news of harvest is spread!"

Mr. Fiddle now confused

Those silly little things!

Fiddling with his austerity, 

Meddling with his worth.

"You foolish sprites!

How dare you defy me?

Do you not know that I starve in hunger

Before any of you gets a meal?"

Mr. Fiddle bright with anger

Grew a foot taller,

and a shade darker. 

"You imbeciles! You morons!

You little things that can only fly!

What have you done to ease starvation?

Have you ever toiled to bring harvest to the table?"

"No!"

and his voice thundered

"You have done little compared to me!

I have grown big and strong

and the people love me.

Though I stay still in my cabin,

they all call for me!

Because I bring them all that they need.

And what have you done!

You little cowards and your foolish words!

You praise the wisdom that you wish to steal."

The sprites scurried to the next willow,

Mr. Fiddle laughing in victory,

And the willow withdrew her branches,

For she required them to heal her injuries.

"That will teach them!"

said he with pride,

And he boasts of a war well fought.

"It is done, pay no mind!"

Oblivious to the foolish thing he has done. 

And the skies thundered and roared.

Mr. Fiddle not knowing

That the skies are now fiddling and whittling

His life into a riddling course. 

Words can do much, yes,

But so can the fabric of trust.

And when torn, who to call for?

But one's own hands, and readjust.

And is it not betrayal

To curse the hand that feeds you?

And yet, is it not betrayal

To demand that they coddle you?

As to pay you respects,

And galvanise your power,

When you are not the God they pray to.