Sorry About That

SORRY ABOUT THAT

I lay no claim to inspiration
Have no message to impart
There’s no clouded information
Borne on sheathed or sharpened dart
There’s no motive to my rambling
No illusions to dehort
If I gild the pill with verses
It’s a neuter way of sport.

Some people play with checker board
And some with cards and dice
While others play win gin or dope
And some with men or mice
And then there’s viewers of the screen
Or watchers of the birds
I have a different sort of toy
I like to play with words.

And all the thoughts that come and go
Are temporary things
A tempest blowing through the mind
On swift and troubled wings
And if they dampen spirits bright
Or cloud a hope unseen
Remember its the Spring time snows
That make the grass grow green.

And if my words are barbarous
Or cramped, or crude, or dry
Unlettered muse, or harsh abuse
I have to let them fly
And if they strike a tender heart
Or cause a fool to heed ‘em
Or bring you any sort of woe
For heavens sake don’t read ‘em!

Bonnie White Bleak