Soul of a Poet Life of a Child
He thought himself a poet
Destined to live this lie
He wrote the words that no one reads
And the world would pass him by
For he had no education
He could barely read or write
But still he wrote his simple words
His spelling never right
Eighty years old he's seen it all
Though he seldom understands
Forced to live a simple life
A life that fate demands
He writes his poems everywhere
Even on the back of a cereal box
He sleeps all day and writes all night
In his underwear and a pair of socks
A fall when he was three years old
Left his brain a little slow
For eighty long years he spoke as a child
With a mind that wouldn't grow
The soul of a poet and the life of a child
He wrote what he felt inside
He smiled as he wrote his simple words
As his heart was filled with pride
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