On Life's superhighway,
I'm parked on the shoulder.

If all the world's a stage,
I'm an understudy
In the wings.

If one's reach
Should excede one's grasp,
I'm arthritic.

If the world is your oyster,
I'm the irritating
Grain of sand.

If a man's stature
Isn't measured by his height,
Call me a Hobbit.

If actions speak louder than words,
I'm mute, and probably dumb.

If a penny saved is a penny earned,
I'm bankrupt.

If good things comes
To those who wait,
Save my place in line.

If beauty is in
The eye of the beholder,
I'm myopic.

If absence makes
The heart grow fonder,
Why did you buy
A one-way ticket?

If a bird in the hand
Is worth two in the bush,
I hunt Ostrich.

A mind is a terrible thing
To waste...
A mime... eh!

If brains are better
Then brawn,
Tell the big, dumb bully.

A drowning man may
Clutch at straws,
But where he's going
There's no milkshake.

If actions
Speak louder than words,
I'm mute and stationary.

If Hope springs eternal,
Then Spring is eternal Hope.

I was hanged once. Seriously. Hanged.
If you can believe it.
Stupidly and innocently the rope was
Slipped over my head.
The waggon was pushed out,
Suspending me twisting slowly turning
With untied hands. Can you see me?
I was as good as gone.
You'll have to believe me.
Take my word.
You can't look it up.
Seriously.
You can't find any account.
Nobody reported it.
All the same.
I was hanged.
Left like Eastwood.

But, then we were opaque.
Not like now,
With clicking phones.
There aren't enough incarnate spirits
To be snatched away by the number of photos.
Everything is snapped.
Everyone should shudder.
If you think with a click you're good to go,
You're good as gone.
As reported.

Who am I?
I'm a piece of work.
A block of marble,
A chip of rock.
A driftwood face,
Waiting near a dock.
A song without refrain,
You won't sing again.
A pattern, pinned for sewing,
A garment good for stowing.
A man in queue,
Looking back at you.
A canvas smeared in gesso,
Leaning near a frame.
A sonnet missing
A rhyming couplet,
An octave and a sestet.
I am
A work in progress

I knew her before
She coloured her hair.
She'd wash and brush,
With a simple part down the middle.
I remember it falling silently over
Her shoulder blades, down her back.
It always looked like that,
After a full day at the lake.

And I knew her before
She used cosmetics
The way they're used this day.
Her cheeks glowed with youth,
Her brows arched like shorelines;
Lashes balanced droplets
Over rushing ruby lips.

I knew her to play tennis,
To swim, run,
To laugh and be fun.

I knew her
With lights on,
At dusk and at dawn.
I knew her for long.
I knew her so long.

Words That Rhyme With Trump

Lump:     as in ***** grabbing
****:    as in ***** grabbing
****:     as in his oversized ****
Plump:    as in his oversized ****
Frump:    as in his long red tie
Clump:    as in his vain comb-over
Grump:   as in his tweets: SAD SAD SAD
Chump:   as in the electorate
Slump:    as in his popularity
Stump:    as in understanding Unishid Sshtashs
Dump:    as in the Mid-terms

Mugwump: as in this word speaks for itself.

I'm waiting with certain trepidation
Assured my reality
Is in for something big.

The eleventh dimension
Can't assuage my dread.
There's something happening,
As big as Dead.

The cellphone's our new Nativity,
Destroying my old myths;
Where's the white salamander hurrying,
Spirits hoovering, aliens lurking,
Hairy bipeds in the forests,
Yetis in the snow.
Nothing soon forthcoming.
It all looks like Alberta.

I can't snap inside the sun,
Nor freeze-frame a revolution;
Or the moment one feels love;
But truth is self-evident.
And the facts are yet to come.

All the best stories,
My life-changing beliefs,
Need one still, a black and white will do;
Til then,
I'll suspend
Disbelief,
And sustain credence,
Close to the dark room.

Then we'll be the Magi,
Bowing, grovelling,
Awed and surprised.

I was up to my fingertips
Doing humanitarian shtick,
Visiting a nursing home
Where they're more dead
Than sick;
Playing and singing
And doing my licks
For those with clocks
Near the last tick.
They didn't mind
My performance was sick.

The woman occupying
The bed next door,
Would curse and swear
Like a Tudor *****:
Together we were
Rocking the floor.

Just then the P.A
Called Code Blue,
I played on through what ensued..
What was I to do?

Then we heard
Code Red, Code Red,
The one next door yelled,
****, I'm dead?

I heard her screech,
Code Pink, Code Pink!
I caught the refrain,
Played a chord,
The Tudor and I
Were in full accord.
What was I to think?

Code Brown, she bellowed,
Code Brown, she hollered,
Hitting the ground
Just near the toilet.

*Code Green,
Code Yellow,
Code White,
Code Black,
I'm the victim of a Rainbow attack.
**** it! ****! I'm gonna die!
Don't they know I'm colour blind.

I paid a visit to Byron.
He was distressed about
His sixteen year old son.
A smart lad.
Can't sign his name for his driver's license.
     He was never taught cursive writing, By.
I lamented with him.
The blue book, half the size of standard,
With the two solid blue lines,
Divided by a-broken-red-line.
We began with dull HB pencils,
So not to tear the pages.
By Grade Five, we had fountain pens.
Pages and pages...of loops, sticks, slanted at the correct angle,
Through the red line and all the way to blue,
Or (and this took serious concentration),
Only three-quarters the way,
Up, and/or down to the lower red.
Pages of o's, p's, q's, x's, z's.
Every letter its own uniqueness.
Then joining them like a chain gang:
Creating words that dug, turned over and spread out.
Any and all words making sense of the world,
In sequence, patterns and sound.
Such power.
Letters to distant Grandparents,
Valentines, notes.
Hieroglyphics.

Your Signature.

Francie Lynch
246 Devine St., S.,
Sarnia,
Ontario.
Canada
North America
Western Hemisphere
The World
The Solar System
The Milky Way
The Universe

I was one with infinity and creation.
In ink. Real ink,
By age 10.

I've been adding
To my landfill,
All my earthly years;
Backfilling,
Filling spaces,
With blades
And brushed off tears.
The diggers will uncover
Loves that now are cold;
Wrapped as
Memoried mummies,
Alive while I grow old.
Prying spades will
One day dig
My community of graves.

I am alone. I am.
The sounds are not naked
Scratchings from outside;
No soft paws scurry in the attic;
The floors beyond are tiled;
The stairs carpeted;
The hinges like cloth;
The curtains drawn against shade;
The phone doesn't ring to vacant voices;
Half-burnt candles would burn
In the whosh of a hallway.
And yet,
I hear you breathe,
Hear the rustle of sleeves;
A light slivering beneath the door.
And I am
Alone.

A poem is like
A piece of wood.
It can be ripped,
Chopped,
Shaped,
Sanded for smoothness.
Sometimes you nail it;
And it can stick like glue.
You can drill a hole
Right through it,
It might bore one
Through you.
It can get under your skin.
But when it's cut
Against the grain,
It should be read again.

They flip like flapjacks,
Sizzlin' on heat;
They flip like a light switch,
The rats,
The finks,
The stools,
The snitches.
How many will get told tonight:

     Y'll sleep wi da fisches.
      That'll school you alright..

I didn't intend on joining
Neighbourhood Watch
When I stepped onto my perch,
The elevated porch.
I spied a lad
Trying a car door
In the drive
Next to the cop's.
That's forbidden fruit
In the dark of night,
Under the slight light
Of a quarter moon.
Had I called the cops,
Would he now be homeless
By an ignominous,
Effaced father.
His pride's a tailored fit
From rejected rags.
Friends may post the antics
In glossolalia on FB
For all nations to read
The mark against him.
I didn't call.
The sin of the father
Is exposed in the sun;
Not in alleyways
Under broken street lights
Where a rejected son
Devises a defense;
Thinking no one sees him;
Thought he was alone.
I yelled to him, go home.
Go home, very few can.

I bought a ticket
For a friend;
Do I really
Want him to win.
     Is this what one
     Calls a sin?
     Venial, mortal,

Let's crank it up a notch.
Let's involve the cops,
Or the color of your skin.
     Is this what one
     Calls sin?
     Cardinal, deadly.

Let's raise the ante.
Say you're near the body
Lying on the floor,
The evidence is clear,
You're the next of kin.
     Is this what one
     Calls sin?

Wherein is the sin?

My friend kept all the winnings.
Cops are on the take.
Our brother's in the gutter,
Our confession came too late.
Our sins are mere mistakes:
At worst call me ingrate.

The papers are wet with ink.
Russia is losing it's war.
North Korea is swamped with the Covid.
Tucker is backpedaling his replacement theory.
Finland and Sweden are enrolling.
Armament shipments are making a difference.
The Pope is apologizing.
That needs repeating: The Pope is apologizing.
(But why stop with the Aboriginals. Consider the Jews and Irish).
Fossil fuels are on the decline.
(plastic microchips are in our fat)
I can still buy Roundup.
Tobacco is banned in most public places here.
*** is not.
There are more drunks, and more behind bars, and in front.
We have safe injection sites.
I have robots asking me if I'm a robot.
There are more tv stations selections.
TV is not worth watching.
LPs are making a comeback.
Right to Life is Wrong for Many.
... and on... and on

Kathleen Avenue still has houses,
But people left, and trees were felled;
The canopy across the street
Has lost some limbs
And many feet
Of children
Playing hide and seek.

One house, a brown-shingled frame
Is aging there as are our names;
The front yard doesn't boast corn
That Daddy grew
When first we landed;
Not knowing neighbours were offended
With farming behind green picket fences.

      so corn, cabbage and turnip too
      were left to rot. Daddy knew to strike
      when hot.

The locals weren't too much impressed
When Daddy taught them some respect.
The human smell of decaying turnip
Keeps my nose from turning up.

     the front was never farmed again.
    
Recently, I passed that yard,
The picket fences gone;
And someone has a garden there,
The new arrivals,
If they care,
Really see the wisdom there.
I give a nod
To my Old Man,
An immigrant
Before his time.

The story I read, some forty years now,
Burns inside my head.
A young woman, ***** violently
By two brothers,
Hands and face mutilated,
The horror on her father's face.
Vengeance was his alone,
As he murdered her assailants,
And boiled down their bones.
His name was Titus.
The story was four hundred years old.
Re-told from a story three thousand years older.
Re-told today.
Rwanda, Bosnis, Syria, Jordan, Dahlmer et al.
Disfiguration with acid,
Limbs gone missing,
Tongues cut out, black sockets,
Missing parts of humanity
In prison camps and resistence movements.
We're still baking pies and feeding on human flesh.
Shakespeare was never so violent.

When I'm seeking shade from a relentless sun,
And brush a rejected leaf off my shoulder,
I feel poetry.

When I brought my girls home,
From hospital, school, a bad night out,
I've experienced poetry.

Walking Front St., or  Centennial Park,
While the buskers are busy,
The children are laughing,
The dogs are barking,
I've heard poetry.

If fortunate to espy a shooting star,
Enjoy the fullness of an autumn moon,
Witness the dawn light up my lawn,
Like a diamond mine,
I've seen poetry.

I've tasted poetry on my lips
With kisses and endearing words,
And lingering tastes from what you serve.
Yes, I've savored poetry's flavors.

Who reads poetry.

They thought she'd be Sassy,
You'll read she's no Lassie;
So they chose an Isle,
For kin and kith,
Meaning more than breadth and width;
Henceforth she's called Skye.

She's a dimunitive terrier,
She'll not be a harrier;
She'd fall down the holes
Chasing rabbits and voles,
And never be heard of again.

Too quiet for a guard dog,
In the pack, she's no lead dog;
If she tried herding sheep,
They'd bleat in their sleep,
And the sheep would lay down
For the wolves.

She's no sledder like Buck,
She can't carry a duck,
And certainly no fighter like Fang.
She's no Rin Tin Tin,
Can't run fast like him,
And she's not sleek like Roy Rogers' Bullet.

She won't find a body
Buried under the snow,
And she won't win blue ribbons
At any dog show.
But I'm convinced
By her snuffles
She's well worth the trouuble,
I'll take her out hunting
In the woods
For my truffles.

I understand why we personify Life,
We live;
But why personify Death,
We die.
Attributing Pride to Death
Is senseless;
It's the last thing on the island.

I dreamt  I went to heaven;
(Or someplace, perhaps not there) ,
It surely was surreal.
I was somewhere in this vision,
For I certainly wasn't here.

In revelry I searched the crowd,
Saw countless faces shining.
Booth and Chapman smiled sublimely;
Oswald and Ruby discussed their crimes;
And Adolph and Idi were enjoying time..
Charlie and Earl began singing,
And Brutus danced out with  his brothers.
And the legions were carousing,
I wept while browsing,
I didn't see her here.

Did I take the wrong path,
As  dreamers often do;
And miss the gates of Paradise,
To go to Hell for you.

In the centre of this commotion,
Judas called me over
With his martyr's  smile.
We joined with the others,
(Ones he knows as brothers) ,
And lead me to the One I sought.
I'm in heaven when I'm with her.

I  roused myself,
Shook hard and long.
All the teachings we ingrained
On bent knees with hands inclined,
In prayer and subtle song,
Truly wronged us all along.
In death, I know, we leave behind
Our Hell-on-earth, and find,
Everlasting Peace-of-Mind.

.

You can't remember where
Your buried treasures lie;
It's been years
Since you turned the earth,
Measured the wealth,
Stored it for days of leisure.
You lost the life mapped
With the X.
Why?
Did you mark the spot with G,
Or did you sell the  plunder?
Remember, you're no younger.
All your troves,
Blue ribbons and bows,
The buttons, the pins,
Your souveniers and sins
Have left you bankrupt.
I'm not a parrot keeper,
Can't curl my lip like Elvis;
Or sail into bays
To recover lost treasures.

You have said
As a Phenomenal Woman
That
Still I Rise,
and so you must to travel
The Road Not Taken.
But
If You Forget Me
In your
Dreams,
Dearest Annabel Lee,
I will sing like the
Caged Bird.

If,
When Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening,
You should find yourself in
A Dream Within a Dream,
Then deny, for
I Don't Love You Because I Love You;
I love you more
As I Grow Older.

I will pass through this life,
Do Not Stand by My Grave and Weep,
You are not
Alone.
You too
Will Not Go Gently Into That Good Night;
For I
Don't Go Far Off.
This is the promise:
Hope is the Thing With Feathers,
or it can be
A Poison Tree,
Casting venom on
Daffodils,
Making
All the World a Stage,
And I,
An understudy in the wings.

We're deep to our waists
In February;
Trees look like a geriatric pool-fitness class,
And the grass,
Sparse as the bobbing skulls.

      I heard a lone Canada goose overhead,
     The V has left the others for dead;
     And a gray pall covers all
     With winter's threadbare spread.

The alarm is set,
The time is right,
The season's snug,
But not sleeping yet.

     Soon, the beast will close its eyes,
     And Spring will march in,
     Fresh and vigorous,
     Like a new recruit,
     Green and anxious.

She'll fire-up roots, flowers and leafs.
In the pool they'll sway in the breeze,
Branches touching in Spring's reprieve.

I had hair, lots of it,
And wire rim glasses,
Bells, sandals
And elephant pants
With the Libra sign embroidered
On the back right pocket.
We wore leather wrist bands,
Listened to the cool music,
Knew all the Beatles' lyrics,
Dylan and Snow too.
We never wore peace signs,
Not after seeing Sammy Davis Jr.'s
Pendulous medallion.
We were trenders,
But that wasn't a term then.
Neither was sexagenarian.

The question was raised
In the morning sun;
The coffee was on.
I remember.

The window over the sink
Was open, the curtains flapped
In your face.
You remember.

I saw the fine hairs
Through your sleeves,
Same as you,
I was teased.
We remember.

You asked if I was leaving:
The answer given
Seemed to please.
You remember.
I remember.
The pets remember.
My universe won't
Let me forget.

We wrapped-up
In our arms;
Turned off the coffee,
Re-set the alarm.
*Je me souviens.

An open Rosary,
Sprawled on the table
Has the shape of Eire.
Towns joined like beads
On winding, rope roads.
At the end of the main street
In Shercock, Lough Egish,
Or a thousand other towns,
Looms the church spire,
God's rod.
The square still bustles on Wednesdays.
The smithy's forge
Now lights up a Paddy Power;
The Euro Store sells needles and thread
Where once a seamstress sat;
Shish Kabobs on flat bread sell
Where the butcher's counter displayed the day's cut.
But scrape away the paint
And attend to the devotion and mystery
Of small town Erin;
Where only the pubs maintain names
Decade after decade.
There, on the wall, see the rebels
Enjoying a football match,
And the crowd, laughing,
Has their backs.

We've been... a... part... so long;
We've not been... to...gether, a... lone.
Together alone.

I hear the lonely house sounds
Of dripping, creaking, and window wind whoshes;
The semi-muted fiber optic sounds;
The various vehicles dopplering past.
These I hear in my fractured second,
Before asking, "How ye doin?"
Which shatters into glass the silence
Held too long between us.
But now we are alone, together, alone.
A silent alone, together.

You've been vetted,
But I wouldn't
Bet on it,
The election is years away.
So, pound the pavement,
Rally supporters,
You'll need a prayer and a wish
Day by day.

The Little King,
Who ruled here for thirteen years,
Now reigns in the undiscovered country.
Restrictions keep him in the freezer,
Where he's
Lying in steak.

I shared an outside table
With two young American graduates
On an amber Scottish day.
They were completing
The European tour:
Not unlike the Romantics
Walking the continent.
A cap to an illustrious degree.
One scholar was blunt:
Do you believe in God?
No.
Why do you say that?
His companion leaned in for my answer.
Because you asked.
Both reclined into a smile.
Of course.
Then settled
Into a half-empty glass.

If you'll allow me,
I'll be the booming voice,
Or the low murmur,
You stiffled,
Long ago,
In your head.
But I won't allow you
To muzzle me.

Add a verse,
You have it
In you.
Excrete and devise.
Throw-up
Your insides
In a technicolour
Burp.

A sudden splash of misty whiteness
Where sterile outlines fill
With skin pink water colors,
Then the rainbows separate into distinct arcs,
Blending again at my supplication.

Shushed whispers turn my head.
I listened for whistles, songs, familiar voices;
Pleased to praise when requested, when warranted,
Advise when asked, offer silence when needed.

I felt skin on my skin,
Sunblock and creams,
Long before your hand in mine.
I have offered my hands too,
Palm to Palm.

Your scent is forever,
And can't be covered with perfumes or incense.
At the most unusual times, it hits me.
I'll turn in a line, or somewhere,
Expecting you right there.
I enter a room knowing you're near,
Here, within.
Part of my life I live in vain memory.

It's bitter sweet, this journey,
And we are the salt of the earth, our earth.
From deprivation to overload.
And I sense, with sound insight,
We can still get it right.

Why do you put up with a social climber
With two rungs left
Before his feet touch the earth?
Is it pity, empathy or indifference?

Choices are often ultimatums;
Free will is frequently channelled;
Chaos and dominos infiltrate like moles;
Serendipity and chance prevail.
A few rungs were damaged,
And the playing field is never level.

Why do you put up with one so down?

Ladders, she says, extend both ways,
The angles depend on aspirations.
Going up varies,
Coming down, inevitable.

She concludes with:
*The law of gravity is grave.
That's how.

Kirk was a flirt.
Bones could clone.
Scotty liked scotch.
Chekov goofed off.
Sulu, he flew.
Uhura went further.
Chapel would coddle.
But
SPOCK,
He
ROCKED.

Follow your North Star
'Til you drop in your tracks;
Your story's ahead,
Don't turn and look back.

Your dreams, when awake,
Are dreams that you follow;
The ones in your sleep
Are misleading and hollow.

Aspire for greatness,
You'll make some mistakes;
But the distance you travel
Will make your ground quake.

If you reach for the stars,
And pull back too soon,
You won't have regrets
When you land on your moon.

I accept atheism, agnosticism,
Transmigration, reincarnation,
Obliteration and nothingness.
These beliefs include all religions,
Yes, Voodoo, Satanism, Witchcraft,
Judaism, Christianity, Muslim, Hindu,
Shintoism, and Buddhism
(even Scientology).
Some sects aren't polite.
I won't mention the one that rhymes with:
Vileness, truthless, bias, noxious, menace,
Hubris, vicious, ****, prejudice, malice,
Callous, darkness, heinous, carcass or badness.
I might lose my head, or something.
But all the others,
They're based on humanitarianism,
And isn't that what it's all about?
Us,
Not them.

The third incarnation
Of the green blob
Tenaciously grips the drain lip,
Threatening
A fourth invasion.

We minimilize,
See a world of greens,
Prefer concerted solitude
And simplicity.
We cut and draw;
Like weeding words,
And gaining more
With fewer strokes.

There strolls another father,
Scrolling while his daughter
Rides her stroller as they stroll.
He really oughtn't scroll,
She's awake as they stroll;
It's a stroller, not a scroller.

The purpose of a stroll,
Is to walk and talk the prattle,
The speach that infants rattle
While strolling in their stroller.

Sing to your child,
Stroll all the while,
Hum or whistle,
Mumble……..Grumble;
But don't silently scroll on,
While strolling with the stroller.

Recall childhood rhymes, if you can,
Say the ABCs or count to ten;
Talk of little piggies and brazen toads,
Meaningful memories,
And yellow brick roads.

Enjoy your strolling.


Enjoy your scrolling.

I love the number three
In all its numerology.
The universe,
Yes, every atom
Builds paragons,
With protons and
ons and ons...
Three illustrates our progression
As the sum of all before.
Our music finds accord
When three notes
Blend to chord.
Love and all we deem
Of worth,
Is here,
Third planet,
Earth,
Where life gives birth
To you and I and us,
Dependant on
Animal, ore and vegetation
To ensure regeneration.
We grew, grow and nurture
In past, present and future.
Our words, thoughts and deeds
Are civilization's seeds
For a wholesome, safe and peaceful life
With Faith, Hope and Charity.
My favourite three priorities:
Andrea, Maggie and Kathleen.
Now,
With the birth of Aine,
I'm in love with four.

I'm looking at branches
With baby buds
Waiting to bubble open
Above seeded and fertilized lawns,
Growing lush between our toes,
Soft beneath reclining heads
Interpreting whales and camels above.

Moons rise. Suns set.

Our first home
Was a skeleton with skin shingles;
Floors with no sounds;
Rooms with no emotions.
The car, all shiny and new,
Left an oil stain on the asphalt.

Wheels are turning.

My innocent, wide-eyed believers
Now share the same blameless lies
With innocent, wide-eyed believers.

Suns rise. Moons set.

Don't eat that or drink this.
Roll up your sleeve.

Astronauts blasted off for the ISS
Wearing masks.
Before their return,
We will cut, rake, bag and burn.

When I was two
I was told
What to do.
When to sleep,
When to eat,
Sometimes
When to pooh.
That's okay,
In fact, it's cool,
I was two,
Not yet in school.
I can't dismiss
That life of bliss.

When I turned six
I started school;
For sixteen years
I followed rules.
I got Qualified,
I got Certified,
I got Bone Fide,
I shoulda been Beatified.
I did what I was told.
I was sold.

I enjoyed
Middle-class life,
Rising early,
Then late at night.
Worked for the man
As best I can;
Reaped rewards,
Came out unscarred
Because I was
A rules vanguard.

I'm older now,
There's no rules,
So don't tell me
What to do.
But, there's one thing
I'll tell you.

Success isn't measured
In cars and homes
(there's some success in chromosomes),
Just follow rules
To your advantage;
You're not weak,
It shows your courage.
Secure the best
For your life's voyage.

Now,
That I'm sixty-two,
Say what you want,
I'm deaf to you.

Distant trains still sound alarms,
Blinds are drawn, people yawn,
It's time to call the day.

The sun's turned off,
The moon's turned on,
The stars like pinholes
Blink till dawn.
The animals are bedded
On the farm;
Beneath this counterpane we're warm.

Today our work is done;
Tomorrow worries not begun.
But tonight I'll sleep
Like the seventh son.

Intro:         C      G7        C       G7         E7           D7          G7
   C                      G7
Shine away your bluesies,
   C                                                         G7
Why don't you shine, start with your shoesies;
   E7                           Am7                       C7
Shine each place up, make it look like new,
   D7                                           G7
Shine your face up, I want to see you wear a smile or two.

      C                             G7
Cause my skin's light creamy,
       C                                    G7
Just because my eyes are greeny;
     E7                 Am7                          C7
Just because I lack some shade of brown,
    D7                                                  F7­
Don't stop me from funking down when I funk uptown... Funk!

C                       G7
Cause I dig rap music,
E7                               Am7                C7
With jazz and blues I boogie all the time;
  F                                 Cdim
Just because I jive to Reggae,
  C                          A7        D7            G7
T­hat's the reason, Baby, why they call me...

C                                 G7
*****,  watches ice hockey,
  C                            G7
******, he likes to copy.
  E7                          Am7                          ­C7
I'm Caucasian, the abbreviation won't do,
D7                              G7
Drop the name tags, see me the way you want me seeing you.

   C                               G7
Why don't you shine, your these and thoseies,
   E7                                            Am7       C7
You'll find everything's gonna turn out fine;

  F                            Cdim.    C
Folks will shine up to ya, everybody's
                                       A7
gonna howdy-doody do ya;
  D7                     G7                C
You'll make the whole world shine.

      C                                            G7
So,­ clap your hands, shout Hallelujah,
     E7                             Am7                   C7
You'll find everyone's much the same inside;
    F                      Cdim
You know we all share blame,
C                                                         ­           A7
Don't “Howdy-doody Whitey” cause that ain't my name,
D7                           G7                 C
And we'll turn the world colour blind.

A triumphant voice denotes
A life leaving this room.
We should not be surprised;
It tells us:
          I once was there where many stories
          filled many shelves.
And now, another memory becomes
Another treasure to mine in days of leisure.
          We join in exultation.

There is less serious work about now.
We step in and out of shadows
Cast by the sun filtering through
Her tree and picture window.
The shadows reach many rooms.

She and I were present  
In many of Shakespeare's tombs.
Together we witnessed Royalty paraded:
Elinore, Lear, Macbeth, The Dane.
Her lineage is confirmed.
Our busy stage is less crowded
With the exit of La Grande Dame,
Elizabeth.