Brown shades and enclaves of cornered days
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that are creeping to my time in this sand.
Damn those who don't like this man, because this is for me.
This is for the lost innocence that has been in the
wind--hourly, weekly--and month to month.
Soul in the trunk of the car of life--got to make money to live
Am if I'm wrong, I'm a bum, shunned by the
masses living behind the glass getting wet--they'll all forget me,
if I don't live life correctly. poetry can't pay the bills.
Damn, I want to live but the plan has my hands tied--
from corporate america to giving back to america,
there is no time for me. So of course
there is no lady, or babies, because there is no bread.
And the cheddar has molded, the only paper that is folded
is my poetry.
So I give this to thee, to do my part to add to the prosperity of the
art-form--excuse me for rhyming profusely, or misspelling my words--
this is from the heart, taking me back to innocence daily.
For I've hit stages and blazed pieces so hard that the crowd got a real bad contact---and I loved that, jonesin' for that next tract.
But now there is no time, for there has to be money to live and the grind will suffer, I just hope to leave you with enough to cover you---
until I return
Clarence B. Barbee