Monday, June 4, 2012

All Play; No Work

Brushing past aside
scurrying along with mighty stride
People walk, walk past me,
and I like an ancient tree

watch them come and go.

No I ain't a tree, or a light pole
I am a man, a man with a pocket hole
The kinda guy who does nothing for a living
Tom who never works, coz he's only playin'

I play with words, too many.

I nip and bind words, in rhythm and rhyme
to suit every moment, every theme and thyme
I kneel at the behest of rivers, that gently flow
and with a sudden burst, pearls of words aglow

within me is a world, about which no one knows.

No I ain't got a salary
and it isn't a mark of chivalry
What if I were paid,
what difference would it make?

Unsociability was ne'er a common trait.

My work is my religion
boundless, my art has no region
to promote protect or enslave
I belong to the artist's conclave

We wanderers have no job but lust for words.