Singing A Song Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am the guy
Who digs with sticks
In the mud,
Who sometimes sings.

You are the court composer,
And he is Mozart,
So why am I so jealous
When I am not around to listen
To the passionate repercussions
Of the acclaimed competition?

I am not a worthless griot,
But not much else-
The speckled bullfrog who in such
Delusions dreams he can be returned
To a prince,
But never was,

A prince
Wrapped up in gold leaf
And crinoline and fine tobaccos
I resemble the aura of a lover delicately
Placed in a radiant shop,
Shaded by the panoply of vermillion
Patinas,
Chartreuse and sweet penumbras

Until my eyes are back in the open,
My class untouchable,
Roofless,
As the rains come down pedantically,
Shivering prayers;
I use my tools into the dirt
Where I can barely here the crescendos
Of better orchestras,
And sometimes I serenade with all
My unfortunate brothers,
Reptilian ululations which seems to
Us a song.