Six decades into iambics, da DUM
Words drifting in my brain seem far from done
But the cadence I hear clear is DA BUM
Making me want to swallow my old gun.
I once aspired to the poet’s life
In a town with a campus, stately trees,
A dog, some kids, and an admiring wife,
But what blind loser wants a bum like me?
Instead of news by day, verse by night
I joined a salsa band to pound drums
Clad in gaudy costumes I was a sight
For minimum wages and beaucoup rum.
And here I reside in the year oh-nine
Blind-ass drunk as a skunk on cheap box wine.