PRAYER

Is this it for me
curs’t not to be
A writer of some magnitude
While sitting here and in the mood
All a-strain and all a-bloat
In tattered tam and ragged coat
And praying to whomever be
A goddess of such poetry
As I might claim a trifling share
Of fame and fashion if thoust care?
Do send me here
By cart, or sled, or nag or scow
(pray, bend an ear and hear me now)
One wee idea, word or rhyme
Or couplet, if you’ve got the time.
Stay not your power, quick, I pray,
Through either end would be okay!

Note:

Sadly, his plea would not be heard. He’d been seated in a badly constructed time-worn two-seater at a cliff side, which tumbled with himself in the throes of what would have been a record-writing fecal tsunami for future schoolbooks, as witnessed all too clearly by two-thirds of the town’s female population, who came tumbling after, not dissimilar to Alberta’s own buffalo jump.