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.