"Sing a song,"
The master said,
"Before you don't
And wind up dead.
Sing a song And you will see
How happy, Sad, And young you be."
"What shall I sing?"
The singer asked,
"For up till now
Not one has tasked
To write that thing you call A song.
If none exists, I'll right that wrong."
And so to paper pen was put,
And rhyme appeared.
Of love,
And joy,
And dreams of what
Was yet to come.
"Tis half a song at best," He mused.
And then a breeze his mind did soothe,
And from his lips emerged a tune.
It was the first such sound
And soon
Was heard by all who ventured near
The singer.
And from that first song
Came the rest.
And through the time
Each one was best,
From singers who caressed the breeze
And gifted us,
Our souls to please.