Floundering ink wells do render me mute
I dip bucket to psyche and come up dry
Song of the meadowlark, strum of the lute
Hearing them not, I so ask myself why?
Why was I chosen for this hostile place?
Where soul is for sale to highest bidder
Grim lines encountered upon aging face
Many elements I must consider
Countless before me hath been ill-fated
Mirth doth paint portraits of fortunate few
Hath frolic as such been over-rated?
Mankind’s tribulations oft’ shaded blue
I hunger for simple life high on hill
To inhale pleasure without bitter pill
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