Fool's Gold

Whoever said my writing's gold

Should closely heed my word:

It's more like bronze

That's polished enough to be sold

To highest bidders

As I peddle down the country roads

To share my riddles.

Fiddle with a broken string -

this out of tune guitar

made from some old wood and your nylon hairs.

Those chords that strike with dissonance

And sweet despair.

Haha... but I won't "fret"

If I may make a pun.

There's something sweet

About sending these clashing melodies up to the sun.

Oh who would've thought the bronze upon my tongue

Would lack the depth to rot into your souls

But still be silly fucking fun while it is being told?

And if you're seeing cold

I guess my warmth is not conveyed enough

To points of being bold.

I guess I can't impress you proper

If you're peeing gold

And I'm still urinating copper

In your toilet bowl.

But who cares now, honey bunny?

Though you maybe find it funny,

I will gamble on these little lines

written in stupors

If they bubble up some crummy money prize -

Like I was playing rummy high.

That sunny sky... sunny sky...

The one that showers me with sunbeam sighs

Does pour over my tongue

To warm my whispered nothings to a toasted bun

That's probably eaten by now...

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