The young boy
Ach Muse, why do you make me write sketchy, scruffy,
Would it not be best to carve your rhymes in wood or stone
‘Stead of in scribbled lines all airy-fairy, huffy-puffy?
I guess your impulsive, interruptive, like a child who plays at home.
Yes, you’re raw and mild, the happiest child,
Who sports about but has not learnt to write as yet.
You bubble with ideas, play war games wild,
But noone ever loses, for you conjure outcomes sweet.
I guess it’s ‘cos you’re ever lost in play,
Each afternoon and on the following day,
You seem heedless of the rushing time as it ups and tries to run away,
And expend yourself in strange ideas, which sprout up along the way,
No wonder, scruffy childish one, you cannot me exhaust,
You are a peerless, tireless playfriend, kindred of the Holy Ghost.