The Exhaling Poet


“A short poem just before you go

You are not going anywhere I know

But just the same if you have the time

And buddy if you could spare a dime?”


He sold his poems in limited editions

For an extra dollar he gave renditions

But people ran and hid their head

From the unmasked man

Who created the dread


It takes breath in the form of words

To exhale my sonatas in poetic muse

But people said: No! No!”

His lyrical poems they did refuse


Until one day he no longer stood

On that street corner unfurling his hood

Gone to ground – isolated off

The man with no mask

Had been taken to task

By a local priest

Who told him to cease

Pontificating his poems and rhyme

With the unappreciative public – it didn’t chime


So he stayed away and wrote some more

Pasting them to his chimney breast

A grand wallpaper they made


Until one day hundreds dispensing accolades

Stormed his house

Banging on window and door

Crying through masks: “More more more!”

“We will pay any price more than before”

“Too late” he cried back “they are all stuck down”

“My genius is gone to the wall” he said with a frown


The moral of this tale is:

When wearing your mask

Don’t take breathing poets to task

Rather, If you want another poem

Just simply ask

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