Once again this broken down poet is out of luck
He and his old pick-up truck
He and his rambling mind and this fading of time
Still and silent is he, the mountain; buried beneath

Burnt out blues, delivered by run down fools
The lost of his literary tools
Jumbled words stall once again, this fall
The rustling of the winds

Roses bled dry, stuffed in a flask
The death of his Genie in that bottle of glass
Hopes and dreams, forgotten schemes denied
Searching for love; but yet, he never asked or even tried

Pill pop penned with out stopping 
But yet never a cigarette to be lit
Once more, pictures shot and stored
Living this life was such a chore

For fate and destiny have played their roles
But just now, they have decided it
That final slice, how lovers wrestled
With vim and vigor, vinegar and wine

These words fell upon, Death’s ears
The receipt-ant, colder then ice
His tears turned into, ice
Scribblings upon paper

In a forgotten study
He lies there bloody cold
Amongst the shattered glass, and the mold
Stained Blood Red, by the wine

No final dance
No friendship ring
No way out
No way to win

His mansion crumbling
The fumbling of his words
She never heard
His attempts detoured

Just he and his scribblings
He and his dreams
His memories, of
Forgotten scenes

At last, a will and testament
Is found, amongst the clutter
Every word he ever muttered 
Scribed in blood

Covered with crumbs of bread and butter
I bequeath to you, my only daughter
Every word I have ever uttered
I truly loved your rotten mother

She this only Gal, lives a life of a swell
From poverty she came
Richly with out shame
From loving words her Father uttered

Selling them only, one by one
The job would never get done
So she sells them time and time again
Four poems for a dollar

A thought by Sinbad the Sailor Man