Excitement!
Anticipation!
Dread and Gloom!
All these emotions running through my head to name a few.

Taking the plunge,
And self-publishing one's first book,
Uncertain of this loving recreation's first foray into the world,
Will it be loved?
Will it go unread?
Only time will tell for this collection of prose and truth.

Come to me,
Oh look and see,
Please tell me that I don't belong.

To this place,
O' to this world,
To this situation I hath rote.

But negative,
Nay I say,
Tis a situation so grand,
That it can be only sung out in the tongue of yore,
For it is only the most noble of mantles,
Of Fatherhood's door I adorn.

It shall be I,
I be armed with simple tools,
A fresh ***** or bottle,
To assuage my young liege lord's woes,
For betwixt the soggy ure or rancid scitan,
I dread knowing such knowledge,
But my sacred duties of ****** I shan't ignore.

So for now,
Oh humble bards and wanderers,
Listen to this tale no more,
Create such joy and celebration,
For upon this day,
My Firstborn son is born.

I look out at my hometown,
And what is it I see?
I see a stranger,
Bearded and haggard,
Staring back at me.

Oh, my hometown,
So filled with cherished memories,
What happened to your pastures and your fields,
Your farms and your special feel?
Where I explored so deep in my formative years,
Never able to uncover all of your secrets.

Your fields are now filled,
With cookie-cutter suburbs, million-dollar home-o-ramas, and strip malls,
Your farms a distant memory,
Your pastures destroyed and paved over,
Parking for the urban refugee.

You were a place of mystery,
A home for 8 generations before me,
But now you are nothing but a hollowed-out husk,
Gutted for profit and a name.

Strum out to me,
Oh music man,
That sweet mandolin tune,
Tell me the secrets of this world,
I'll keep it just between you and me.

I'll take my snippets of unfinished poetry,
And you take your unfinished book,
We'll mash them together into a chunk of clay,
And what results I think will do.

Let me take you in my arms,
And swing about the room,
To some merry little jig,
Only heard between us three.

Let's laugh to loud like *******,
And banter like buffoons,
Rant and rave like jabbering macaws,
And croon until we're blue.

Take care of me when I drink too heavy,
And nod along to my song,
Even though my guitar may be out of tune,
Carry my traumas when they become too crushing,
And say you love me too.

A weary traveler,
The stoner dude,
Walkin' stick a'tappin,
To the stanza crooning out in his mind,
That oh-so-groovy tune.

It's a golden hour,
Everything framed in a gentle light,
Rounding edges like a fine-grit sandpaper,
The sky such a beautiful shade of blue.

The sunset is an interesting one,
Sherbert orange clouds topped with a subtle purple plume,
Crowned with golden-yellow cirrus.

I stand in awe of this majestic sight,
Breath swept along this noble image before me,
Casting the air exhaled on the currents of this exalted visage.

I never tried to describe the thrill of inspiration,
Let me try it here,
Maybe you'll understand,
That odd sensation of a muse that strikes with such a odd sense of glee.

A shudder at the lower back,
Like when you get a chill,
Tingling in the thighs,
Like you just squatted 400 lbs.
Accompanied by a shiver in the knees.

A quiver along the shoulders,
Like you're riding on some great wave.