I was trying to write a story, about all the things you've done:
The wonders and the miracles, the terrible things you've won,
But the words kept getting shackled and I couldn't find the way
To tell the world a story that's still being played out this day.
I remember all the parables you told, the teachings and sly winks,
How you'd never say a single thing not designed to make us think.
But I wonder if there was anything that prepared you for your fame:
I think you were not able because no one lives who recalls your name.