Washed up freak and a son of the soil,
Dark mystique all the drama avoid,
Young looks dim whisper sound for a voice,
None sees wit plus the genius in coy,
Strums six strings lives alone in a shack,
His face looks trim all his haters attack,
Plays out sins scripting plays in the heart,
Young dark dreams though he’s down on his luck,
Lives on fluids and a vegan dessert,
Tears form pools when his flicker departs,
Tears mic booths in his mind he sees that,
Pores through books to escape the peasant,
Time doth fly and our heroes go,
Some make sights while some they fall,
He hopes for light for the summer and fall,
That one-time drudgery would birth tall tales.
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