Two years come,
The phone stopped ringing.
About that time, lost the urge for singing –

Nor by voice, understand:
As with the nightingale,
I know who loves music, man.

One year later,
My chromed guitars were repo’ed.
Denying me the chance to play for the people!

Not by choice, you see
As with the clochard,
I’m stripped by sheer poverty…

Now once again, comes spring,
One can only hope
For the ferm to begone – Allowing me
Again to Sing!

Inspired by “Sympathy” by P.L.