He wore not the armour of a knight

Nor the robes of occult might

He who wished to be no sight

Felt it best to travel light

At school he flunked as a hero

For his marks were far below zero.

He would always sleep in class,

And gathered nought but mass.

He was not handsome or tall

His breath made enemies fall.

Despite this, his tales were sad.

Mostly both foolish and bad:

Like any hero worth his beer,

He wished to save a maiden fair.

But the maiden made it crystal clear:

She preferred the monster's lair.

Then he tried to kill an orc

But was mistaken for some pork.

Quickly he fled, for who will boast,

That they ended up as a monster's roast?

Meekly, he wished a goblin to fight

But was beaten by a greater might.

It was no goblin, but something harder:

An angry rat in the tavern's larder.

He went to a Seer, to hear his fate

And ask if there was for him a mate.

The Seer saw and professed no hope

Then left to wash her eyes with soap.

Years later, he was both hero and king

His tales will minstrels forever sing.

The moral is to never mourn:

For no one is as hero born.