The poet packs his rusty pen, his sheaf of paper notes,
And fills his spotted handkerchief with poems that he wrotes,
It is the time, he boldly cries, to change my home abode,
And picking up his worldly goods, he strains to bear the load.
The mover's men, they scratch their heads, it is what they do best,
You have your pen and manuscript, but what about the rest?
The twenty rolls of woollen rugs, the sixty trunks of books,
The sofa, lamp and king-sized bed, the hat stand and coat hooks?
The poet raised a lazy brow, of that I could not say,
Pray organise it best you can, I've a train to catch, good day.
The movers shrugged and mused aloud, in our van it won't fit in,
And so they took the poet's stuff and chucked it in the bin.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved