The Musician

He thinks with his fingers,
He plays with his mind,
He reads with his ears,
And leads while behind.

His art never lingers,
In silence he sings,
To err is but human,
But God to him clings.

He always remembers
As light follows thought,
And fright does not foster,
Despite of this lot.

While I spite the facade
Behind which I be,
Sinful to say that
I too can be he.

Dealer On High

Death He casts across the green,
Or three are flopped, by His great hand;
He may turn or roll a twin,
Or float a river upon the man.

With these ways does He decide,
Sans yellow eyes, who'll rule the world,
And who'll look up to mortal men,
And who their silver spoons will twirl.

Those of us, behind the cream,
Who must fight back with hands made weak,
Fear not for we can still act,
Hearts of talent with faces bleak.

Those of us, sans courtiers,
Who must fight back with numbers base,
Should check or fold when He does tell,
Then raise to twirl our better days.

Of Pressed Rats And Warthogs

I've been extremely busy quizzing and writing college essays. I'd written this before the last couple of posts and had forgotten to put it up. It's actually a song written in a heavy 12-bar blues in A. That's probably why it sounds a bit awkward when read as a poem. Have been meaning to write this for nearly a year now.

Hey Mister Suit & Tie,
How must I pay?
When you took away my land
And killed me yesterday.

Hey Erudition Man,
How must I read?
When you took away my mind
And did but let it bleed

Hey Minister of God
How must I pray?
When my prayer took my brother
To a world far away

Why follow the sharp dressed man when he just looks to please?
Selling tales of Jesus Christ and broken memories.
Why hear the unwise owl when it hoots but fallacies?
Pressing rats with fiddlesticks and ministry decrees.
Why worship the Judas kin when they can't cure disease?
Buying immortality while we die wanting peace

Hey Mister Green & Gold,
How must I live?
Your robin hoods take from me
And to the rich men give

Hey Mister Destiny
How must I go?
The path you paved for me
Now crumbles just for show

And,
Hey third-rate circus clown,
Can I come with you?
We'll fake it through the cream
And die inwardly too

Why work for southern men when the war's already through?
My valley was green before the sun shined black & blue
Why receive gifts that mime apocraphy when I lose?
Empty lyrics I take not, but music I do choose
And why must warthogs dig so hard to find that funny brew?
Black comedy can't be seen and man has killed us too.

Pressed rat and warthog have closed down their shop.
They didn't want to; twas all they had got.
Selling atonal apples, amplified heat,
And pressed rats collection of dog legs and feet.

P.S. - Yes, that last verse is taken from 'Pressed Rat And Warthog' by Cream. It's meant to be spoken (like in the original) over the instrumental outro...