A Song For Sale

( READ IT ALL. OR DO NOT READ AT ALL)

They said do come along, we shall take you to your home,
There are many of us here, So don’t travel all alone,
The night is falling fast, soon the fiends will be about,
If they grab you by your throat, you shan’t be able to even shout,
And if you trust us less, you can take the backseat,
Keep a hammer in the hand, and out the door keep your feet.

The man who then sat in the carriage, His name was Trotting Trevor,
He lived out in the farm, and never took no favor,
But he was happy to be helped, on that fuzzy night,
For miles he had travelled, without a soul in sight,
So Trotting Trevor the farmer, brought the good brandy to his lips,
And he talked about his life, in between the frequent sips.

He told them all about his hard fought golden days,
Those drunk and sober habits, and black and rotten ways,
He boasted all about, his foot long lily white,
And how it thence pleasured him to dig tunnels under twilight,
Tales of the broken stereo and it’s halting, wheelchair rhyme,
He told of his numb ears, as he heard it hundred, thousand time.

Now old Trotting Trevor, he was a gifted storyteller,
He darkened the dark parts, and the bright he colored paler,
And how his company laughed and urged on him to go,
And how they wept in earnest, hearing his crimes in times low,
They shook his sweaty hand, and ruffled his hairless rack,
They promised to take him along, if he didn’t turn his back,
But he knew that was it, his wife must be turning blue,
Thus he bade adieu, to his borrowed friends new.

Soon the road struck lightning path, and the lot all made their choice,
Of them one was Booty Bard, with warm honey voice,
She travelled to old tavern towns, and set the stage on fire,
The men named her Tipsy Angel, the women called her squealing liar,
So when she trotted then, to one town for room and ale,
Booty Bard decided to tune, the old man’s rainbow tale,
She added a pinch of warrior’s lore, and a bit of fairy fun,
Their were demons with soulful eyes, and them Angels with vintage gun,
Love came stumbling often, burning a scarlet red,
Sometimes it ended with castles, sometimes it ended in bed,
And the people found it lovely, and they found it mighty alluring,
So much that they keep asking, till old Booty couldn’t sing.

And deep in that drunken crowd, there was a man with hairy ear,
Who sat writing on a napkin, all of the song that he could hear,
His name was Blackhand Boring Brown, and he wasn’t any bright,
He thought of writing all day, but never did really write,
But on this special occasion, he had heard the lady dressed in rum,
And decided of writing such fantasy, people would praise for years to come,
So he went back the way he came, into the burrow that was his house,
Muttering something to oneself, like a nut cracking mad mouse,
He wore his wise man’s glasses, with lucky underwear,
With a bottle of frozen ink, he sat to write; upon a chair,
He rocked his muted mind, he broke then boiled the song,
Used verbs that only rhymed, and words a hundred meter long.

For pages and pages, he mused upon cobwebs in the light,
Upon single, half sketched sheet, he ended centuries of fight,
Blackhand Boring Brown, he scribbled seven days straight,
Burping old sandwiches, he had a someday ate,
But the man never complained, nothing of flesh he did miss,
Stopping only once he had finished the masterpiece.

Trotting Trevor sat behind a dusty desk, reading a book without name,
His wife said it’s unique, for to all it felt the same,
And true the farmer found, the writing to his taste,
Like a ocean of adventure, without a drop to waste.

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