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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
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