Moderation

There was an old man in Sparta,
Who spent most of his time in pasta.
But wise was he,
For he lived a hundred and was preordained,
To live a thousand more.
He boasted of his wit and his pasta,
So came a smart aleck,
Decked in smart robes,
With a smart foot and smart looks,
Smart air and a smart brain,
And most of all with a smart mouth.

Asked he the old man about moderation,
Telling the old man stupid with acclamation,
Great was the old man’s fury,
Punched the smart man in the gut,
And kicked him on his butt.
Bore it with silence, did he,
Without uttering a word of misery.

The old man then said,
“Overwhelmed in moderation is Contentment”;
“Overjoyed in moderation is Happiness”;
“Obsessed in moderation is passionate”;
“Anger in moderation is just right”;
“And age in moderation is fulfilment”;

Having so listened, the smart man asked,
Tell me O man,
You rained kicks and blows,
You beat me with sticks and stones,
You bruised my heart with actions and words,
Such was your anger.
Then where was your moderation?
And more so, old man,
If moderate you are,
Then why do you have to live an age so far?

Bent with sorrow and shame,
Did the old man admit,
That he had been defeated in his game.
The man was old with sorrow,
But grew wiser with age.
And respect did he forevermore,
All those who came in smart robes, smart walk and smart talk.