Long ago in Italy, a boy would sketch and dream,
With paints and stone and visions bold, his talent made a gleam.
But once he laughed a little loud, and teased a friend in jest,
A punch came fast, a lesson cast, and bent his nose to rest.
Michelangelo, the name, would shine through stone and sky,
But deep inside he’d always feel the curve beneath his eye.
He learned that words can shape the soul, like marble in his hand,
So speak with care and kindness fair, that’s what he’d understand.
Even greatness starts with flaws, a stumble, or a scar,
But every mark can guide the heart to know just who we are.
A crooked line, a gentle rhyme, a statue in repose—
Sometimes the greatest beauty lies in the curve of a nose.
So if you tease or talk too loud, just think before you do,
For every word, like brush or sword, may leave a mark on you.
Be wise, be kind, let laughter glow, like sunlight when it shows—
And never forget the lesson of the curve in his nose.
With paints and stone and visions bold, his talent made a gleam.
But once he laughed a little loud, and teased a friend in jest,
A punch came fast, a lesson cast, and bent his nose to rest.
Michelangelo, the name, would shine through stone and sky,
But deep inside he’d always feel the curve beneath his eye.
He learned that words can shape the soul, like marble in his hand,
So speak with care and kindness fair, that’s what he’d understand.
Even greatness starts with flaws, a stumble, or a scar,
But every mark can guide the heart to know just who we are.
A crooked line, a gentle rhyme, a statue in repose—
Sometimes the greatest beauty lies in the curve of a nose.
So if you tease or talk too loud, just think before you do,
For every word, like brush or sword, may leave a mark on you.
Be wise, be kind, let laughter glow, like sunlight when it shows—
And never forget the lesson of the curve in his nose.