How proud is the peacock!
With feathers of blue,
Showing off to the world,
With eyes that hold true.
Yet why does he strut so?
To hide that he weeps.
For inside is sorrow,
That refuses to cease.
Who sings of his valor?
His mercy untold?
His brilliant kindness,
To all those of old?
Denied are these honours,
To be put to shame,
By the fabulous beauty,
That instead holds his name.
How sad is the peacock!
And envy does he,
His bride, the young Peahen,
For ugly is she.
