In galleries of old, where art doth rest, A tale of manhood, modest at best. In marble and canvas, the tale is told, Of a small appendage, brave and bold.

Through the lens of the Renaissance gaze, In the softest light of the morning haze, A symbol of virtue, of power restrained, In the smallest form, manhood is gained.

Not the boast of the braggart, nor the warrior’s might, But a subtle whisper in the quiet night. In the artist’s hand, a truth unfolds, A tale of modesty, in the tales of old.

In the eyes of the beholder, a lesson learned, Not in size, but in virtue earned. Dulce et decorum, the old ones say, To bear one’s self in a modest way.

So gaze upon the art of yore, And see the truth at its very core. In the smallest form, a tale is spun, Of the quiet strength in every one.