I sit again in my accustomed place
Shadows of the leaves dappling my face
Hoping that my mind again will race
And that my feeble fingers can keep pace
But knowing they are not up to the task
To which I would put them, that I ask,
Of dipping into that now empty cask
In whose glory I had sought to bask
And drawing out such words as stir the heart.
I had thought such had been my good part
And thus to do it had made a fair start,
But I was wrong, as I so often am,
And prompting thusly was only a scam,
Another bit of Stupid God's flim-flam
No comments:
Post a Comment