READ, WROTE AND BLOOMED

since man has taken fingers

and drawn figures in the sand

the art of that expression

has gone wildly out of hand

man's caves were laced with paintings

that described their daily deeds

and as regards to poetry

i guess these were the seeds

then man created language

and their sounds became designs

which were written in a little chain

their ends affixed with rhymes

and then poets told their stories

their emotions all laid bare

to make us cry or make us laugh

or give us all a scare

and i find myself now guilty

placing thoughts upon my pad

and knocking out some drivel

like a person, plainly mad

but i guess i'm gonna do it

till my hand's too weak to scrawl

or i get so fogged and feeble

that i make no sense at all

but for now i'm fairly stable

and that means that you are doomed

to pick my little flowers

that i've read and wrote and bloomed