The old man walks into my room
He glances over my shoulder
With a bleeding soul I write my song
As he glances over my shoulder
“What is it that you do?”
He inquires, his eyes bright,
With a smile I return,
“My very good sir, I write”
And at that moment, what transpired
Was barely something I’d desired.
With ernestness of a great degree
The old man looks into my eyes
Do not be afraid of the fool
I tell myself
Be very afraid of the wise.
And then with a quiver
From his wisdom pool
Draws the old man a river
And drowns me full.
“There is but one great poem,
And it’s already been writ,
The blue flower and the rain,
And no man shall surpass it.”
I take a deep breath and say
“I’d rather, my very good sir,
You go away, and stay away,
whilst I write
And as you leave, behind you,
do close the door tight.”
Story Of The Footloose 