I’ve been struck by the blues,

What can I do,

Play checkers,

Take all your chips,

And never say I do.

To what do I owe ith,

Forgiving a call to the arts,

is my first fault of sacrifice.

Everybody is not pleased,

When you gather your knots,

Other than the alike.

Your family will think less of you,

b/c it’s not a gift they chose to bite.

Put down a lose-lose fight.

Saving face won’t fill your purpose,

And in hindsight,

whoever they may be,

will never trademark your right.

Your rights dontcha see.

that’s how God gave to the trees.

These limbs don’t ask to breathe.

Those crumbling leaves don’t break rules just for anything.

Your gift is alike a willow…

it just stands there,

awaiting a sun breeze.

So don’t get off your rump,

If it’s not pleasing.

And don’t double your luck,

Waiting for someone to say cheese.

As Pink Floyd once said,

Shine on you crazy diamond,

or you pickled dumb seat.