The Poet’s String Vest

The Poet’s String Vest

There once was quite a wicked lad,
As cheeky as could be.
He sat and wrote his little rhymes,
His uke upon his knee.

It isn’t poetry, it’s a song!
He’d proudly tell the throng.
But when he tried to strum along,
He said, “Well, that sounds wrong.

His father said, Write poems, son.
I’m sure that you’ll go far.
Then Dad passed out his printed sheets
Through the window of his car.

The people barely glanced at them;
They hurried on their way.
But when they saw the lad on telly,
They had so much to say.

They gathered round outside his house
And knocked upon his door.
And those who’d never liked his work
Were begging him for more.

Oh, you’re a splendid poet, lad.
Your poems are the best!
He said, Then why am I still broke,
In this same old string vest?

Your words will fetch a fortune, son.
Your name will never die.
Well, could that fortune hurry up?
I’d like to buy a pie.

They’ll pay a lot when you are gone;
Your verses they will buy.
He said, What good is money then,
When I’m up in the sky?

buy a poem while I’m here,
And let me have some fun.
I cannot spend a single pound
Once all my days are done!