A Story
In my pocket
Some say there’ll never be a day that I won’t write in rhyme. It’s so easy to see what they say as I do it all the time. I’m here to prove you wrong I sing a different song in sentences and paragraphs. My story won’t last long!
In a tree I feel free, I find a cosy place, And then I take a little snooze above the human race. You see it suits, I don’t wear boots and stay off the booze. And when I wake I take a nibble on eucalyptus leaves; I live in the trees.
A story is a garden you can carry in your pocket, promises are a pocket full of rye. There’s the adage of four and twenty blackbirds; the ramifications could make a koala cry.
I plied and tried promises, which I never could maintain, before finally telling her, I didn’t have a name. I wasn’t a gardener, farmer, or a handyman; I fed her with my silver spoon, my backup refrain.
What a charade, and complete façade. I’d never turned a sod in my life. I’d been away for a year and a day, and felt no pain or remorse, and I’d never worked as a green-keeper and was keen on bedroom sports.
They say I used to stutter and cure myself with butter. I’d suck it when the words caught in my mouth, a trick I learned from my mother.
They also said I’d never find, a way to stop the rhyme, and there were signs, I’d never stop. That’s another reason I opted for a change in life.
I travelled to Limerick in Ireland, and there I heard, a story is a garden. And then to be discreet, I uttered, “ My dear, I beg your pardon”.
Now as everybody knows, anyone can write prose, and I’ve mastered the exercise. I carry around a book in my back pocket, that’s full of jokes, some limericks, and lies.
I thank you for your encouragement. Don’t hold your breath, the transition may take a while. Here I am using verbs to make a sentence, and some alliteration to make you smile.
I must attest when I sleep and slip between snags. I bide my time, then join the line and walk into a dream. Some are smooth and slippery, whilst others make me scream.
Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye, four and twenty blackbirds, now words become a trial. I’ll reiterate the meaning, and use a spanner with a socket, deep within my pouch, a story in my pocket.
That’s what it’s about—you caught me out—a dollar or a dime. It seems when my words stream, they all end up in rhyme!
©
David Rudder
2023
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