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"The Art Of Writting Poetry"
Sit'n here peck'n on the ole keyboard
Try'n to write a little poem for you...
The third finger tripped on my left hand
and mis-spelled a word or two.
I think in the end it will be alright
If you pay close attention man...
But I gotta admit it might have been better
Had I typed the thing using both hands!
Well, now I'm in trouble "cause I'm all out of words
and my poem ain't finished yet...
And it's just my luck 'cause I was gonna sell this one
and pay for my new Corvette!
Now I guess I might just tear it up
and throw it in the garbage can...
But I might start over and see what happens
If I type it with my other hand!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
So I think the one thing most folks miss
and I hope your gonna understand...
When it comes to the art of writing poems, like this
you only have to use...One Hand!
"Poor Boy"©2004 dr_tigger@Lycos.com All rights reserved!
Gary Reynolds (AKA) dr_tigger
September 02, 2004
"She"
She walks the city streets at night
her destiny is plain...
The money that she makes transforms
into poison for her veins.
She's like the rose that wilts in time
to the past her memory strays...
So she has another sip of wine
to take the pain away.
She is the child that walks the streets
and no one takes the blame...
Just like the rose that's so unique
whose thorns will bring you pain.
She is the rose that no one wants
and is simply thrown away...
Discarded on the city streets
becoming evils prey.
She's like the rose that none can see
but she lives there every day...
and as she meets her destiny
her petals wilt away...
"Poor Boy" ©2004 dr_tigger@Lycos.com All rights reserved!
Gary Reynolds (AKA) dr_tigger
September 07,2004
"Ole Gibb"
Out back was an old weep'n willow tree
with four or five chairs underneath...
And the ground was bare where Gibb had sat
as he scrubbed away the grass with his feet.
Ole Gibb depended on a government check
as his only security...
He drank Thunderbird wine for breakfast
ever morn'n underneath the old tree.
The railroad ran close by where he lived
and provided conversation now and then...
I've seen Gibb sit and count the cars go'n by
as he sat drink'n wine with his friends.
And I remember the year he turned sixty-five
in the winter of seventy-eight...
Ole Gibb and a bottle of Thuderbird wine
got together just to celebrate.
He lived in a ragged old camper shell
and his only transportaion was his feet...
So he staggered cross the tracks in the even'n time
to the store to get a little bite to eat.
Everyone in town that knew the old man
said all he wanted was his wine...
And I often wonder what had happened in his life
to make 'em want to drink all the time.
But I guess some things we just never know
and they might be just as well left alone...
Yet I wonder if he still gets his Thunderbird wine
since the Lord called my ole buddy home.
"Poor Boy" ©2004 dr_tigger@lycos.com All rights reserved!
Gary Reynolds (AKA) dr_tigger
September 09, 2004
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