I am the ring that no laurels adorn, A puckered little star at the edge of the form. No medals are pinned to my tireless skin, Yet I toil and labor each day, all from within. Through tempests of spice and fast food you regret, The burdens the rest of the body forgets. I clench through trials both noble and dire, An unsung sentinel forged in fire. But even the steadfast may weary and ache, May whisper, “Dear world, give me one gentle break”. A balm, a rest, a moment of grace, For I too am part of this curious place. Through trials and toil, both small and bold, One should never overlook, even the smallest of holes. I have found a truth both simple and fair: Even the lowliest ring merits tenderness and care.