A Song

I once met the poet in the subway station
(I'd seen him before, so I knew him, you see).
He was standing in line for his daily blues ration,
The same as the other commuters like me.
Packed into the cars, we roared through the earth
Ignoring the people around where we sat,
When the poet fixed me with an eye full of mirth
And sang me the song of the hole in his hat.

I once met a busker while mailing a letter;
I tipped him a quarter and gave him a nod,
And allowed as how he could play so much better
Than most of the other street buskers, by God!
He played on his fife for all he was worth,
Depending on coins in the cup where he sat,
And, fixing me with an eye full of mirth,
Played me the song of the hole in his hat.

So, if you happen to see me someplace
(Now that you've met me, you'll know me, you see),
Don't be surprised by the look on my face,
For poets are known to be somewhat like me.
I may talk about football, or music, or news;
I well may debate the place of the cat,
When, suddenly struck by my musical muse,
I might sing you the song of the hole in my hat!



© 1991, Bob Clayton, Silver Spring, MD