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Poem

There's a dream I've had, now and then through the years,
     And I wonder if it could be true.
The vision is vividly etched in my soul,
     Of the places and people I knew.

My home was the road that I rambled each day.
     A traveling minstrel my trade.
My pockets weren't filled with much silver or gold.
     My wealth stacked with friends I had made.

I'd sing and I'd play for the working class folk;
     Whose smiles and tears were sincere.
They'd feed me, and house me, and show me respect,
     And share family stories and beer.

But, The lords and the ladies, kings and the queens,
     Would compete for whose bard was the best;
So, they stole me away from the people I loved,
     And displayed me at royal behest.

And all that is left of the dream I have had,
     Is a lonely, enslaved troubadour;
Who cannot remember the joy he once knew,
     Or the friends that he'll see, nevermore.

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