What Would Will Do?

What Would Will Do?

What would Will do, standing tall with his cowbell, In a world where cowards crumble, behind walls they sell? Would he grin and jibe, break that fourth wall wide, a bell to the skies, let rebellion collide?

Would he speak to the fortress, frail and thin, not from stone, but from cowardice within? Would he laugh at the terror, hiding behind the meek, out the tough guys, whose strength is so weak?

“More cowbell!” he’d shout, in the face of the fear,

A clang of absurdity for all those near. For Will’s not just comic, his smile cuts

, shake loose the masks that coward men prize—not props, but true, from the shadows by who knew strength’s not in muscle, nor bravado in air, in standing for those who face true despair. So what would Will do, if it werewolf Troy in decay?

Wield humour as justice, in ahistorical terms, a wild, wild way. With cowbell in hand, and a wink in his eye, show cowards their end with a resonant cry.

It also asks: What is real strength? Is it hiding behind power or facing the world with honesty and vulnerability, even through humour?