A Songwriter's Spiel
I'm not much chop as fighter.
for your causes left or righter.
I'm just a poor songwriter,
with a dream.
I don't have much cognition,
for your average politician.
I'm just a word technician,
with a theme.
If you want a moody lyric,
to soar like victories Pyrrhic;
or impress the sullen critic,
with your passion and your fire.
If you want the tune satiric,
or a stand alone empiric,
I'll make the tone dramatic to inspire.
I am no proselytizer,
nor a foaming rant word geyser.
I'm just a verse adviser,
with a scheme.
Like the old Prof. to Eliza.
or a wolf with sharp incisors,
I cut the full cloth wiser,
If you want a rhyme fanatic,
to beat in time emphatic,
with a meter emblematic,
of the Passion's holy choir.
To me a charismatic,
imbued by god's dogmatic,
could mould no better plastic to admire.
As a one shop advertiser,
of myself as song deviser,
I sell an improviser,
with a stream,
of unconscious thoughts and muses,
by which arcane art peruses.
I'll light the path I chooses,
If you want the croon hysteric,
or a true romance mesmeric,
or to hint at atmospherics,
as the fashions might require.
To me it's automatic,
to produce the words ecstatic,
and I'll charge your hidden static of desire.
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