Poetry Night

Poetry Night

Birds flown the coop

How low could they stoop

He only wrote a song

And they fucked up his poop

They made him wail

For his art was stale

And kept his shoes

To curse his trails

No more than a point

Delivered to a man

Who banked his dream

On a note he could land

Now the patrons all fall

As time robs them sober

And a new singer arises

To pass time over

By time and time

Again and again

Only some want the attention

A performer can win

To sing words that are groovy

Satisfying and soothing

Tip chords of delight

And get the audience moving

You can hear the profane

To the sound on the stage

A poet plays his part

As the night turns its page 

Be it the grunge or the grit

The hook or the hit

Some voices crawl further

Carrying rhyme with their wit

But when a silence holds tone

And the barkeeper moans

They look to the list

That is not set in stone

Who would be next?

But a man of no wits

Who sits plump back down

Cause he can’t hold his shit

A performer can flop

A song can grow stale

New singers arise

And some can even fail

Who would be next?

A curse to the air!

Someone must stand

Would a poet think to dare?

A sudden step

New to their pride

Were a bohemian duo

Husband and bride

Making up this group

Who were foreign of race

They carried fiddle and drums

To account for their place

Playing songs so strange

With a style from the east

They immediately hit fame

Idols in the least

They tilted their hats

As they walked off the set

This prepared the floor..

Who was upcoming next?

But a sad, sad wanderer

Robed jacket denim skin

He hit a tune off the calendar

Bestowing Christmas akin

And the night drove on

Where the tough and lame provide

They showed songs of times passing

In turn- an atmosphere became alive

‘Rock and roll

Drop out

Tune in

The mind is windy

It’s free to sin

High way to hell

Hear their yell

The night is calling

A tower is falling’

Words soothe the folk

With primordial yolk

They play undaunted

Until the sun has awoke

Then they’ll retire the fire

That bested the night

Their backtalk, gambling

And drunken right

To hear stories anew

Before conquests of old

Sit with their crew

And get out of the cold

The dreams set you up

Where reality stands pale

Be it the reapers right

To pluck what is stale

And the birds fly high to sing

So they can entertain for kings

They belong to no man 

Such a majestic thing