....and who do you claim to be a artist in the rough
clap board detections from the soft but gruff
no master to your name no scroll of report
not even a by line in papers yellow or tort
claim you the practice to write and share
which will claim your art when you are no longer there
somber you stroll to stage and roles flowing white
yours is but a kiss of fate a poem blessed in night
bells of hell upon a burning ship
cast off anchors of primp and lip
father to son note in red
aborts on neck
already dead

at the five and ten some will stare
a marker in the book of whom
we find your name there
but for the dollars spent
no one knows your place
and Raven was just a pet
hidden in your race
hang him high
from yonder limb
for a poet is coal
then sin

as folk recall in better days on field cotton bore
insect of life from dark and cold shores
better in life more to eat clean a mind
trespass if dare in wicked dreams Devine
saved from hell and burning stone
I wonder if the cross
Burns on

So it is at capital on stare
A poet laureate marks the golden glare
A voice as strong as time
Works the glory paid
And the noose of hangman
Is finally staid