There is veracity in our vernacular,
Rhythm in our rhetorics,
This power that I speak of,
Lies only with the poets.

My cart draws on,
But life goes no further,
It twists and turns,
My grip gets tighter,
The path I chose,
Won’t go on for ever,
Yet I cling to this cart,
I can’t hold on much longer.
As time goes on,
My hold gets lighter,
It bucks and kicks,
I thought I was a fighter,
Can I let go,
I can’t go any further,
I don’t want to be here,
Fighting any longer.

The saddest thing I’ve seen,
A baby duckling in a stream,
Left and right he looks,
Before being taken,
by the rooks.