I don't venture to call this poetry,
But merely a combination of words
Which serve not to suggest, but rather be
The images they feed - thus the absurds
Inherent through my verse deserve no claim
To metaphor, nor lonely place in fame.
And if you find a lack of quality
Does smudge or smear the fineness of the pen,
Remember how all fierce idolatry,
Like time, has blurred the value of the men
And women whose personalities bestowed
Upon the Earth the treasure of their load.
But then I can't desire that you read
With much willingness all that I may write,
When I myself can scarce find the time I need
To read my work and set the rhythm right;
Such days are passed into my memory,
Where since I lost them in a reverie.
So in the chance you kindly persevere,
I'll commence now to spin a fairy tale
The humble likes of which I'll play by ear;
Or else I'll just grow restless, then stale,
Wondering why I pause to please the masses
When I should be studying molasses.
