I staked my claim
back in ‘62,
was given a name
by ‘you-know-who’,
grew up bad
or good
depending on the situation,
and here I am,
under evaluation.
.
‘21, where I am now,
got myself here,
don’t quite know how;
and here I am,
all covered in mud,
with a hint of Turmeric
running through my blood.
.
Yes, I know,
that I write bad verse;
but, if anybody read it,
it could be much worse,
‘Worse than what?’
I hear nobody ask.
Ask me another,
increase my task;
and maybe one day,
when the weather is right,
I’ll write a ‘proper’ poem –
I might, I just might.
.
So, on and on
the words they go,
is there no log-jam
to the endless flow?
I’ll stop when I think you’ve had enough;
when times are good,
and rhymes are rough,
I’ll be the Bard
with quill and ruff.
