Dare I expose my foolish simplicity? Are there still those who can love a rhyme? Is the age of troubadours already gone? Is my writing nailed upon the cross of time? Yet, I still growl, wrapped in my greasy bear skin, Drawing stick-men in my smoky cave. Joining word to word in rhythmic meaning, An art many think we ought not save. Best not to speak of flowers in the springtime, Or use cadence in some sweet soliloquy. You'll just antagonize a modern poet, Who forgot the early roots of poetry. To me the poetry of words and rhythm, Came from an old book on my father's shelf. The words within not always understood, Yet, part of the man I call "myself". Applaud my words or not, that's not my worry. Accept them, or accept them not, upon your way. They take me to an old forgotten evening, When I read those poems set in the olden way.

Dare I expose my foolish simplicity? Are there still those who can love a rhyme? Is the age of troubadours already gone? Is my writing nailed upon the cross of time? Yet, I still growl, wrapped in my greasy bear skin, Drawing stick-men in my smoky cave. Joining word to word in rhythmic meaning, An art many think we ought not save. Best not to speak of flowers in the springtime, Or use cadence in some sweet soliloquy. You'll just antagonize a modern poet, Who forgot the early roots of poetry. To me the poetry of words and rhythm, Came from an old book on my father's shelf. The words within not always understood, Yet, part of the man I call "myself". Applaud my words or not, that's not my worry. Accept them, or accept them not, upon your way. They take me to an old forgotten evening, When I read those poems set in the olden way.