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.