Scott Howard Myers
The Gypsy King
In writing this down, to not make you frown.
Pretend all is good, as all stories should.
The story to unfold, of a tale yet untold.
Long ago glory, of hardened men and some gold.
This all came at cost, morals, values all lost.
The hero would be, a dark man, not yet free.
Born into the chains, from far desert plains.
The men took him to slave, to work till his grave.
Day and night he did toil, for their gold from the soil.
Day and night did they drink, their souls starting to stink.
As the months turned to years, the dark man shed no tears.
For the hardened men fought, over the gold they had sought.
And one day when he woke, a voice inside him, spoke.
It made perfect good sense, a plan to jump, fence.
Yet his plan to be free, came easy you see.
For the men and their greed, did one day, make bleed.
In a drunken fit brawl, from spent guns did they fall.
And the dark man did see, that for once he was free.
For all of that gold, as he worked for when sold.
To these hardened men bought, to dig the gold they had sought.
Was all his to be, and set sail on the sea.
To back home to the land, from where he did stand.
Long time ago, once more a free man.