in older times,
and before we logged in,
the world of poetry,
was more than sin,
when people could not write,
worse than today,
when now auto-correction is great,
in every single way,
when word jugglers,
had no typing skills,
and the mad insane thoughts,
was not resolved by colourful pills,
when hands were dirty,
from ink and farm work,
when nobody could read,
it made harder work,
so into the foul town square,
to recite you art to the peasants,
where bad play on words,
was greeted with rotten tomatoes,
to mess up the modern locks,
and you artistic ashen face,
well what a tumble-down
from cloud nine such a disgrace,
spread the word,
I am the towns writer
I write in rhyme.
I give you the news,
I am before my time,
my medieval wit,
and tales so grim,
well make you sick,
as shit sticks to the brim,
of a worn and used bucket,
dipped into by many a poet,
of canvases painted over and over again,
in the same colours just a different angle,
and these newly crafted arts,
ready to hit the assembly line floor,
we going to write forever,
until we all can’t take no more,
so spread the word,
but not after my death,
I need the grain
for my starving mouth,
what good is royalties to me,
when I am dearly departed,
you cannot twitter me in the afterlife,
I cannot hear your comments,
as I am caught between two worlds,
I need you to spread the word now,
whilst I can still walk,
and the world is still free to roam,
with a pen in hand,
and a paper in my heart,
I wrote to free my anxieties,
and all in the name of art.

© D.Hobson April 2014