The Bard
I’m an artist, you see,
A regular, modern-day daVinci,
Yet my craft of choice is words,
With adjectives, nouns and verbs,
For me, rhyming is not hard,
That is why I’m called “The Bard!”
I live in a lovely apartment,
With all the comforts at no expense;
My lodging is free, you see,
As my landlords fawn and adore me,
For my works are so wondrous, they all sing,
“Hail the Bard, the genius who is our king!”
In my room, all is padded and plush,
With windows barred to keep out thieving toughs,
The food, like rent, is free;
Dishes of savory and delicious delicacies.
For all I need to do is write my wonders,
And, with nowhere to go, I have all the time to ponder.
I do not know of any neighbors I have,
But nor do I care if I did– I’m still glad!
Yet there is one fellow who stops in at times,
To ask me about my health and wondrous rhymes,
For, though he asks, I reply, “The Bard will not say!”
As I keep my secrets, he leaves, shaking his head in dismay.
Alas, though my life is all well and fine.
I cannot help but feel uneasy sometimes;
The servants here are dressed all in white,
With writing on the back in black type,
For they move too quick for my eyes to discern,
I’ve managed to guess they say, “Psychic Word.”
Ah, now my hand grows numb,
As I have a sore, disjointed thumb,
Always an uncomfortable spot I’m in, by gum!
As the landlords grant me only one freedom,
For I can only write with one hand you see,
As they insist on keeping this strait-jacket on me.
A regular, modern-day daVinci,
Yet my craft of choice is words,
With adjectives, nouns and verbs,
For me, rhyming is not hard,
That is why I’m called “The Bard!”
I live in a lovely apartment,
With all the comforts at no expense;
My lodging is free, you see,
As my landlords fawn and adore me,
For my works are so wondrous, they all sing,
“Hail the Bard, the genius who is our king!”
In my room, all is padded and plush,
With windows barred to keep out thieving toughs,
The food, like rent, is free;
Dishes of savory and delicious delicacies.
For all I need to do is write my wonders,
And, with nowhere to go, I have all the time to ponder.
I do not know of any neighbors I have,
But nor do I care if I did– I’m still glad!
Yet there is one fellow who stops in at times,
To ask me about my health and wondrous rhymes,
For, though he asks, I reply, “The Bard will not say!”
As I keep my secrets, he leaves, shaking his head in dismay.
Alas, though my life is all well and fine.
I cannot help but feel uneasy sometimes;
The servants here are dressed all in white,
With writing on the back in black type,
For they move too quick for my eyes to discern,
I’ve managed to guess they say, “Psychic Word.”
Ah, now my hand grows numb,
As I have a sore, disjointed thumb,
Always an uncomfortable spot I’m in, by gum!
As the landlords grant me only one freedom,
For I can only write with one hand you see,
As they insist on keeping this strait-jacket on me.
Nathaniel Gowen