The Lousy Poet

On the cliff — beside a Pine,
Where the first Sun rays shine,
Lies a thatch — standing aloof,
And dear Bruno — Woof! Woof!

There lies a couch and some weed,
A saddle — ragged — but no steed,
The floor is strewn with ink and quills,
And crushed scrolls on the foot-hills!

In summer, autumn and in rain,
In joy, ecstasy and some pain,
The lousy poet would scribble down,
His feelings, freckles and his frown.

In the night — and — in the day,
Wherever his mind would sway,
Of things past and yet to come,
worrisome, lovesome and awesome!

Well — he called himself lousy,
So that without getting drowsy,
In this fruitless abyss of vanity,
Still somehow retaining his sanity,
He could write lines worth reading,
Therein his expectation exceeding,
To the world — prove his worth!
And yet be — down-to-earth! 🙂

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© Written 1-Dec-2017
{ Picture Credit — Hut On The Cliff }