Working Manís Poet
I need a poem to end this drought,
simplistic in nature, without any doubt.
This working man poet suffers writerís block,
its hard to think when youíre on the clock.
My rhymes maybe simple and my curses a bit vulgar
but my audience includes a fireman, a rancher, and a logger.
The tales I tell and the stories I know,
have nothing to do with Whitman or Poe.
But blue-color poems and white-color tales,
Budweiser drafts and Super Wal-Mart sales,
I write what I know and I know where Iím from,
milk farms and corn, vets hung up on Nam,
Memorial Day parades in my scout uniform,
Friday night football, beer thatís piss warm.
Saturday night keggers in the field out back,
Church Sunday morning, feigning the innocence we lack.
These are the things from my recent past,
and these are the things that Iíll forget last.
Since those days of youth, Iíve grown up strong,
relying on strength from within all along.
As a working manís poet, Iíve built houses and such,
but honestly enjoy writing, thank you very much.
I write for my people, the ones waiting back home,
who would die if they were caught reading any poem.
The tough guys and bikers, and their wives too,
who never knew a poet that could do what they do.
Iíve lived their life and still know what I learned,
then left it behind to travel unconcerned.
Now I write for my friends, so the others will see,
what it takes to be a blue-color hillbilly.
Weíll fight and weíll die for the US of A,
visit our town, if we like you, you can stay.
This poem here was meant to end my long drought,
to take away any lingering questions and doubt.
This working manís poet, just doing what he do,
God bless the world and Buddha bless it too.