Walkin on Air

Give Back to God

There once was a poet from times of old
who dreamt about prizes and pots of gold,
yet when the time came to sit down and write
he discovered facts that filled him with fright:
he could not make sense of things he put down
onto the paper he'd brought from the town;
he was stuck on his chair all the day long
but nothing made sense as all came out wrong.

‘What shall I do now?” he said, “Give me light
to shine on yon pages blank in the night;
Oh Queen of the muses, leave me not dry,
I pen must some words no matter how wry.
Come, sit down beside me and share my load:
be sweet inspiration, become my goad.

Then sweet honey words shall drip from my sort
into open minds where dreams may cavort
blot out salt tears, erase constant abuse
caused fellow poets by poems abstruse;
sacred ablution spring forth from my verse,
my message herewith make direct and terse.

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Give Back to God

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