Nick was a lost boy With a whispering heart He held proper Victorian sadness Until his public strength bowed As it does with the artistic type His soul beating modal And his mask of gilded paper mache With glue dripping and drying to fragile dreams He needed to get back to the pastures of Tanworth Yet London had other ideas And his stiff upper lip cracked He was a poet, you see Who danced with trees... And everyone knows Butterflies don't ride bikes Though that would be beautiful To see one on a banana seat Sailing down a country lane... Alas, butterflies can simply fly away if a bike objects And feel no pain But Nick was hurt as he fell to the ground His sickly hunched posture told of a great weight Shoulders struggled to shepherd the world With only Flower his power And Pen his staff Sadness met the River Man And the River Man broke down Poor, the fame of falling poets Rich, the earth’s garden of toiled words Caked under soiled writers nails A headstone, "Now we rise And we are everywhere" His tailwind to us Go and look at what our fellow poets eyes do see And bid hello to another artist’s soul on parade For, as with you, they too are simply lost And desperate for a garden to share and grow
For Nick Drake, and to poets everywhere. Thanks for sharing. Thanks for your rich souls. London here represents what the world wants us to be. Butterflies, the crack from reality.... May we all meet the River Man on our own terms, with a smile, on route to our own pastures of Tanworth.