Oh, how I wish I was a poet,
With a tongue so swift and sweet,
And words so soft and stoic
They would make even grown men weep
And oh, I wish I was a writer,
Who makes worlds just as they please,
In a copper mixing pot
Or a baker’s pan with grease
In that world beyond my grasp,
Where the noble flag flaps in the breeze
Inside the proud warrior’s clasp.
Yet those golden fields lie far away,
So far out of reach…
But oh, these things take practice,
And a person cannot slack,
So I guess I’ll have to pass this,
As those are qualities I lack
Yet the world waits for no one,
And the going is just as rough,
So I guess I’ll start tomorrow,
And try my hardest to be tough