There is one rule that we must here obey
to win the prize and let our spirits fly
above the common sort beneath our sky,
the ones on whom we the more lucky prey.
They are our food, we can't just let them stray
over the earth. We'd just be getting by
when we should be above them, soaring high
and clouding their most ordinary day.
Otherwise, from all fetters we are free
to lie like deviant angels while the sons
and daughters of the people merely weep
as on each solemn grave they plant a tree.
We are the noblest sort, for we're the ones
who fly in comfort while the many creep.