I’ve got nothing to say.
People don’t listen anyway.
Let the loud and lame
Play their slam-jam game,
But I’ve got nothing to say.
Princes, queens and buffoons,
Snug in cozy cocoons,
Poetically inclineds
Murmer from their minds,
But I’ve got nothing to say.
Poets come and they go;
Write their names in the snow;
Scribe grand sagas on sand
In a changing land,
But I’ve got nothing to say.
Fate is a heartless brute
To bards who can’t elocute,
So some polish in print
What they really “mint,”
But I’ve got nothing to say.
Bubbles wafting through time,
Drinking vodka and lime
On a rambling spree –
That’s okay with me,
But I’ve got nothing to say.
– Job Conger
written 4:30 pm, January 11, 2001
As the upper case at the start of each line indicates (my little technique for indicating to readers that this is a song lyric as well as a poem - if it can be considered a poem in the first place; I never know) It’s a ditty; not John Donne, accompanied by yours truly (given the opportunity) upbeatly on an acoustic guitar. It was written as I decided to put the poetry pen down for awhile and published in my third book of poetry Bear’ sKin. Buy it when I recite for you.
As Jiminy Cricket once sang to Pinocchio, “Give a little whistle, and always let your conscience be your guide.”
As I always say on the final log of mos te mai postingz,
Live long . . . . . . . and proper.
