Bill T. Wallace

Bill T. Wallace Poems

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The Town Gossip

Most small towns are big let downs,
where life can be a bore.
The beloved alcove, is the pot bellied stove,
in Uncle Ben's General Store. Our little town, has a female clown,
that spins her tales like a rattler.
She mingles her prose, with the scent of a rose,
for the ear that will hear, as she tattles. A gossip she is, and a gossip she'll stay,
She conceives and then weaves all her lies.
And the blarney she brays, she dispenses in ways,
that might muddle the minds of the wise. Ruthie's her name, and gossip's her game,
and she does it with grace and finesse.
She thinks, "Why tell the truth, it so very uncouth,
when a story of mine makes 'em guess?" Ruth can begin with the truth of the day,
and embellish it up to the sky.
She knows how to tell, her way into hell,
and she'll doubtless be down there someday. There are many that say that Ruthie's a stray,
from Salem, that witch town unique.
That she's been endowed, by some sorceress should,
with technique of freakish mystique. It's really been kind of a ball,
to spectate this champion of all.
To watch as she weaves, and nimbly deceives
those hicks, that she'll likely keelhaul.

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