The Common Touch

I look around this swell of sea,
And find many same as me,
But I feel no pain, at our common touch,
Only pride that we don’t, differ much,
And remain aloft and alive of will,
All masters of some meagre skill,
Much unlike those precious few,
Who sell themselves to buy something new,
And yet remain same as old,
With that begging bowl, made of gold.