The poet writes the nursery rhyme, with stories seldom true .

The tales I write are mingled wine; drink with me two or three.

A truth lies hidden in the mud, concealed from you and me.

Sand and stone from up above wash from the mountains high.

But you won’t find the mother lode if nuggets satisfy.

I’ve panned many a river.  I’ve dug in limestone caves.

I’ve scaled the highest mountains.  I’ve opened ancient graves.

The words I write are golden.  Some nuggets and some sand.

But if you’re satisfied with these then you’re a dying man.

The riches that these pages hold is nothing but a clue,

A map to where real value lies, treasure hidden in you.

Go find the wealth I’ve written.  Search the bedrock.  Seek the stone.

Great treasure awaits only those who find it on their own.

You’ve got a lot of books to write; I’ve written but a few.

Get higher on the mountaintop and gain a better view.

Come dance upon my mountain, get drunk upon my wine.

Lose yourself in my jungle where the monkeys make the ‘shine