by Dawn Slanker
Scribble, dribble, wriggle, wretch
there he sits upon his bench
a maudlin man with mournful sighs
seeing himself through other's eyes.
He's not so green as you might think...
soused and seasoned with poetic ink.
scribble, dribble, drunk that pen
with wine and thoughts that will not end.
He calls upon his poetic muse
a substance he does oft' abuse.
Add some spirits or some ale.
He does spin a raucous tale.
Off again with pen in hand,
leader of his one man band,
writing down his liquid speech
in pursuit of what he cannot reach
©2008 Dawn Slanker