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.
