As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.

The dew of compassion is a tear.

Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

You should always wash your hands after school.