...As the years went by Nick’s playing
came less often, as he wandered,
he just became a vagabond,
going to almshouses in winter.
That’s how he came to Watertown
in the sad last year of his life,
they say he didn’t play at all,
many felt pity at his plight.
There even was a well-dressed man,
white-haired, and getting on in years,
who came looking for Nick Goodall,
and in that sad poorhouse appeared.
They say he took Nick’s violin,
and played it so the notes were heard,
said, “Nick, don’t you remember this?
And how we played it together?”
Nick then took up the violin,
and ones more played beautiful airs,
some say the man was his father,
he was never seen again there.
Why Goodall died, nobody knows,
he was given a pauper’s grave,
some folk looked at his violin
to understand how well he played.
But they found nothing special there,
the viol was a common kind,
the beauty that he’d drawn from it
was born out of his troubled mind.
After he died they raised money,
for a grave, he had been broke, of course,
in local folklore Nick remains:
The Mad Fiddler of the North.
Categories:
poorhouse, appreciation, beauty, character, crazy,
Form: Epic
Got free range to roam
in a plastic dome, poorhouse farm
The debt fence keeps rooster clock me
from payment parachute, golden eggs liberty
Oh, such pecking order karma harm
It’s a butcher’s credit card discount
when it comes to job security
Know for scramble sho’ ...
my life savings gonna bleed
Chicken-hearted, I apathetically
suburbicon move with merit barrier ease
On promotion poverty, I ghetto feed —
The coin crumbs are tossed down
with oval grin fox charm,
to these vote-spinach weak,
scrawny Popeye arms
What’s to become of
upwardly mobile downtrodden me?
I feel the oppression fire,
as I dire breathe
in corporate henpeck attire
So many cubicle drones on a dollar swarm
Got our pension papers
going up in puff severance flames
From the $$ penthouse cigar smoke alarm
Career bobble head success,
it ain’t nothing but frying pan bad luck:
Just no-fault blame
Omelette integrity “yes” chasing a buck
is a sour cluck shame
What’s to become of
downwardly mobile uppity me?
I feel the ambition, pink slip heat,
as boardroom boss dragons say:
To profit prey
is why they fire breathe
Categories:
poorhouse, humorous, joy, satire, word
Form: Light Verse
Just having some fun
The taxes are coming but I am broke
No food to eat but some porridge and soup
It seems that life right now is very hard
Now I am on the road to the poorhouse
The roof is in sore need of much repair
The pots I need are more then's in this shack
The porch now it is falling down as well
Now I am on the road to the poorhouse
I lost my job without any notice
The foreman said I'm not needed you see
No work to be had for many a mile
Now I am on the road to the poorhouse
The rest of my family is doing quite well
Good jobs they have and food on the table
Their children are cared for or working too
But I am on the road to the poorhouse
I guess I'll have to make the best of it
I will just get on the government dole
Until I find something else that I can do
So I can stay away from the poorhouse
I'll rent a room that is all I will need
I will then make it up to look quite nice
Then I will look for something else to do
Then I won't have to go to the poorhouse
Categories:
poorhouse, poverty,
Form: Iambic Pentameter
Have you heard of Charlie Kemp?
The man was dumber than a poorhouse pimp
He stuck his foot in a lion's cage
Stupidity had to be the latest rage
Now see him walk with a limp!
Categories:
poorhouse, funny,
Form: Limerick
Dreams become nightmares
When one sleeps through life
To be awake is to be aware
Nonviolence is a tougher fight
The brain is a filter
And the heart is a storehouse
Stealing and Stinginess
Will lead to the poorhouse
Never abandon belief
It's stamina for your actions
The right combination of love and hate
Is equivalent to compassion
Diligence trumps intelligence
So never be too proud
Let the work itself be the gift
And bonuses are sure to come around
Categories:
poorhouse, caregiving, inspirational,
Form: Pastoral
(I got the ide for this fictional poem from a cartoon in a magazine.)
People pick strawberries from my field for two dollars a pound.
Since you've been here, my number of strawberries have gone down.
You put some of the strawberries you pick in your baskets but you eat some
when I don't look.
You're going to send me to the poorhouse because you're a crook.
I don't like people like you because you're dishonest and you're a dirty rat.
You have a big strawberry stain around your mouth and I'm charging you an extra
ten bucks for that.
Categories:
poorhouse, food, funny, on writing
Form: I do not know?