A Peculiar Fellow

Again tonight the strange bard has come to the town with a tale to tell that some will hear and few will understand. By the fire, in the Town Square they gather, and he dances and skips in his tattered rags as he prepares to gift us with his peculiar tales

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Tweedle Da and Tweedle Zee, you are all a pleasure for me to see. Tweedle Zee and Tweedle Da, it is always my gift to see ya.

There are things that are said in a crowd or in bed. There are acts that are done by a group or just one. 

But mostly I am a peculiar fellow. Not one like me not brown, white, or yellow. One known to write and you to read. With words on page to prove I bleed.

With turn of phrase sometimes unsettle. With steel to spine ah yes, such metal! I'm fit to write for King or Queen. And all such lesser beings in between. But my favorite subject, don't let me start. Will always be the matters of heart.

Kings and Queens have love no doubt. Why would anyone want to live without? But lesser beings have more to clout. For their pockets hold less gold throughout. To bring your love, your heart, not riches. Although I was unlucky, mine we're just bitches. But that's the story to be left untold. Gone in the past, that dream is sold.

Where was I children? Ah, what I meant to say. I like to write, heed what I say. I'm not sure the number of stories left to tell. Before my God hits me over the head with his calling bell. Although Google goes soon and so do I. More than once I've said my goodbyes.

What of my stories? My poems? The things that I write? Things scribbled down in the middle of the night? Same as the things written before computer site. They will be forgotten. They will fade out of sight. Not to worry, not to cry. Not to put up a fight.

There are things that are said in a crowd. Although I was never that loud. There are things that are said in the bed. But mostly those things go to one's head. There are things that are done as a group. As if I would ever stoop. Then acts done as one. The Lone Ranger, Ronin, the surviving son. Yes, I am a strange and peculiar fellow. One who loves to write, for there is no love for my heart to settle.

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And with that, the Bard turns a pretty pirouette, leaps, and seats at the foot of the Town statue and begins his nightly tale.....