None cares to read the poet or the rhyme
A lyric is not out of place and time

A dollar to spend makes it a tragic tale
Full of sex and blood and jail

No need have we for artists brush laid to words
Or sounds that angels have heard

A message written in well no soul is to valuable
The a poets work will sell

In slumber at keys I let the volume flow
To places only poets will know

Each writes his report of what is on the land
And in hope we all share but we can

Few if any publish works to view
Seldom does the publisher review

A middle of the road is found at a robber's den
It is the greatest of where and when

Still gathers dust on a mantle tall
And tears of joy from children down the hall

He was my dad and published after all