The Villagers of Stiltsville
Perhaps you don’t know,
then, maybe you do,
about Stiltsville, the village,
(so strange but so true)
where people like we,
some tiny, some tall,
with jobs and kids
and clocks on the wall
keep an eye on the time.
For each evening at six,
they meet in the square
for the purpose of sticks,
tall stilts upon which
Stiltsvillians can strut
and be lifted above
those down in a rut:
the less and the least,
the Tribe of Too Smalls,
the not cools and have-nots
who want to be tall
but can’t, becuase
in the giving of sticks
their name was not called.
They didn’t get picked.
Yet still they come
when the villagers gather;
they press to the front
to see if they matter
to the clique of the cool,
the court of the high clout,
that decides who is special
and declares with a shout,
“You’re classy!” “You’re pretty!”
“You’re clever!” or “Funny!”
And bequeath a prize,
not of medals or money,
not a freshly baked pie
or a house someone built,
but the oddest of gifts—-
a gift of some stilts.
Moving up in their mission,
going higher they aim.
“Elevate your position”
is the name of the game.
The higher-ups of Stiltsville
(you know if you’ve been there)
make the biggest to-do
of the sweetness of thin air.
They relish the chance
on their higher apparatus
to strut on their stilts,
the ultimate status.
For isn’t life best
when viewed from the top?
Unless you stumble
and suddenly are not
so sure of your footing.
You tilt and then sway.
“Look out bel-o-o-o-w!”
and you fall straightaway
into the Too Smalls,
hoi polloi of the earth.
You land on your pride—-
oh boy, how it hurts
when the chic police,
in the jilt of all jilts
don’t offer to help
but instead take your stilts.
“who made you king?”
you start to complain
but then notice the hour
and forget your refrain
It’s almost six!
No time for chatter.
It’s back to the crowd
to see if you matter.
