For 1463 Poetry Contest sponsored by Brian Strand
He was a dog without a bone, a nightingale in monotone, a cat that was canary-less - a man who lived with less. One day, he took to the road, the holes in his coat, they showed, but he carried in his pocket, a little silver locket, with a picture of his mother. One way or another, he'd find a way to make her proud, and he'd lose that ol' black cloud. But the only thing he found was a wee thing in the ground, which gave his heart a tug. He eyed it with a shrug. 'Twas only a potato bug.
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