The Writer Poem by Clive Culverhouse

stop sitting in that Paris street
you know I hate it when you crash
through all the flags that people wear
and all the chords are played by shoes
in the music of the crowds

with melodies of rushing by
while you sip coffee graciously
the whole wide world will brush your arm
and stirring won't control the flow
your thoughts are slowly leaking

eventually the day has flown
and all you did was watch a while
but did you change a single thing
you always said you'd write a life
perhaps without you knowing