Poor on the surface, but always seemed a wealthy man
Ignoring self demands to give others a helping hand
Happy doing manual labor to handle a favor
Lived on the side but provided an example for neighbors
Raised a carpenter, this man was a craftsman for show
But everyone ached for the secrets he happened to know
Why nothing brought him down.. he always whistled a tune
Chin was high, while the rest of us are dismal at noon
There was always pride within the swing of his hammer
Fussing over a wooden knot, rather than things like cancer
The whole town wondered how he was so insightful
Craving the same thing he uses to fuel his light bulb

Maybe if I knew, it could plant the appleseed
So once I approached him, and the answer baffled me..

“Don’t think I’m an angel, from the lessons I’ve shed
My feet only float cuz they dangle off the edge of my bed
Now if you must know, I guess I’ll share your weakness:
The pursuit of happiness doesn’t mean we’re guaranteed it
So live for yourself, and don’t be pressed with the worries
Use what you’re given and make the best of your journey”

And by the rest of the story, cliché should make him vanish
But he just went back to work, not trying to save the planet
Sawing, nailing, and painting his table..
One question still remained.. “sir, why aren’t you a saint or an angel?”
He replied, “it was my pride that sent me here, it’s not an illusion..
That fracture in my wing is because I once forgot I was human"