I do not have the time to write a tome
I do not have the time to write a tome
I’ve just too much to do right here at home
I dread the thing that calls with vapid tone
That distant idle chirping of my phone
And yet I must abide and scan the screen
Perhaps it’s something I have never seen
Or worse an urgent message from a teen
Saying the Irish whiskey turned him green
And yet my fingers love the keyboard dance
My mind in fevered harness longs to prance
Upon the snow cap whiteness take a chance
Somehow the empty pages to enhance
Yet I am stuck at home a wingless drone
Resembling the forests aging crone
Subject to a curse turned youth to stone
A voice of cryptic curses to intone
Thus do ancient fingers keyboard dance
The challenge always there to take a chance
Put on your dancing shoes and boldly prance
To hell with those who say “you’re old…you can’t”
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