A note to poets yet to be
No matter what their age is
They've indexed me as World War Two
But what's a scouser lad to do?
With all those bloody sages?
To develop the ability
To speak into eternity
And not be heard' s demeaning
It's not just finding words that rhyme
with syllables in metered time
one has to have a meaning
To give to those in later years
To make their eyes o'er flow
With tears of sentimental empathetic leaning
It doesn't have to beat it home
To keep repeating in a tome
With weight too late to ponder
It only has to make them peer
Through time to see a moment clear
To stare with your eyes yonder
To show a simple memory of what was here for you and me
A rushing stream, a vivid dream. A rose in prose depicted
But chiefly briefly try to say your message to a friend
Emotions free a trifle fey, and true blue to the end
So polish your vocabul'ry, and pay your syntax just to be
Remembered in eternity
Come combat time with words that rhyme
And when you're bent in blind intent
Or lost in thought and sorely spent
Just read and heed these thoughts I've sent
To you my friend through time
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