The poet sat in the corner.
Drinking his coffee with cream.
Painting his latest masterpiece.
Describing his latest dream.
His canvas was spread on the table.
His imagination running wild.
He put into words when he was able.
All the memories that he had compiled.
There ain't no rest for the weary.
You always reap what you sow.
The poet's eyes they grow teary.
As he dreams of a time long ago.
The waitress is practicing politics.
As she brings him his third refill.
Even though he won't look at her.
She knows that she loves him still.
She brings him a bottle of cabernet.
The clock said a quarter past nine.
Her fault was her naiveté.
And his fault was drinking the wine.
There ain't no rest for the weary.
You always reap what you sow.
The poet's eyes they grow teary.
As he dreams of a time long ago.
The sailors are drinking whiskey.
Laughing and singing at the bar.
Their occupations are very risky.
But they've made it safely thus far.
He's hiding in lonely solitude.
Deep within his wandering thoughts.
As rowdy customers playing cards.
Are gambling and casting lots.
There ain't no rest for the weary.
You always reap what you sow.
The poet's eyes they grow teary.
As he dreams of a time long ago.
He digs into a stack of pancakes.
And a picturesque metaphor.
When a one-armed salty seadog.
Strolls right in through the door.
He looks out of place in the old saloon.
He's called captain redbeard by name.
His face is always clean-shaven.
But the poet can't say the same.
There ain't no rest for the weary.
You always reap what you sow.
The poet's eyes they grow teary.
As he dreams of a time long ago.
The stranger comes up to the poet.
He says he will rob him blind.
The poet has another character.
For the poem that is in his mind.
He gives him a leather wallet.
Filled with coins of silver and gold.
The stranger smiles in approval.
As the room becomes frightfully cold.
There ain't no rest for the weary.
You always reap what you sow.
The poet's eyes they grow teary.
As he dreams of a time long ago.
The sheriff walks into the barroom.
With a loaded six-gun in his hand.
The fastest draw in the North Country.
East and west of the Rio Grande.
The poet barely looks up at him.
He's crafting his latest tune.
The sheriff drags the sailor to prison.
As he stirs his coffee with a spoon.
There ain't no rest for the weary.
You always reap what you sow.
The poet's eyes they grow teary.
As he dreams of a time long ago.
The quill of the poet has stopped.
He admires his work for a time.
He takes one last sip of coffee.
Then pens the penultimate rhyme.
He sits back, admires his handiwork.
Puts a few silver coins on the bar.
Walks out with his scroll in hand.
And his dusty old Spanish guitar.
There ain't no rest for the weary.
You always reap what you sow.
The poet's eyes they grow teary.
As he dreams of a time long ago.
No comments:
Post a Comment