it's long since out of print
to think I once thought thoughtful gifts
were always better sent.
it was written by that guy
who'd sing to us in the dark
I could never see just where you were
so his voice became the spark.
I think I'm gonna keep it, though
(your wants have been made clear):
you can share his wine and feathered hair
I'll keep my poetry here.
but none of the works inside it rhyme,
sitting still upon the page.
his stories coming, line by line,
but placing us in center stage.
and while we're on the subject of stages
I met a man the other night
he sang some songs and told some stories
and his handshake proved polite.
but I don't think he would have stuck around like me
he would've left you there in bed
so rather than hold onto the lies
I'll read his poetry instead.