He Thought Himself to be a Work of Art
Upon the central wall he faced the room
His face was always sought in joy or gloom
The children stood and watched his moving hands
His heartbeat beat in rhythm to life's strands
When one day came a visitor to the house
And oh, the arts indeed did she espouse
She chided so the mother living there
That the wall would look much better if left bare
She said "Look at that, cheaply bought at mart,
You need a bit of true refining art!"
At the ending of her long and dreary call,
He found himself pulled from the central wall,
And hidden in a box, not suitable for clocks
Tucked 'way and left hidden in a room,
of musty air and silent dusty gloom
The years passed by, he wondered why
His face long missed had borne no cry
His heartbeat long left off its beat
His hands idle, dreary defeat
He went to sleep within a heap
And oh, that sleep was long
No chime, no time, no reason or rhyme
No children's happy song
Something woke him. What is that?
Doors are opening, light!
A lamp switched on, dusty as he
Now shining very bright!
Unboxed, the dust flies everywhere
It looks like smoke that fills the air!
An old man lifts him out,
Cried with a cheerful shout.
"This is it! I know, without doubt!"
The old man was a child,
Well, had been years before
But since had grown, and left the home
And even been through war.
The times had changed,
And so had he
The children in their seventies
Now his face shines with such pride
His heartbeat takes the years in stride
His hands are busy, all the time
His song at noon, a cheery chime
He thought himself a piece of art
When young and felt the part
But now he's sure he's fine treasure
And knows he is unique
A rare find,
He's antique!
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