by DirtyMartini on 05 May 2007 16:44
(Yes, a poem with footnotes. Yes, I am that kind of geek.)
Another day, another doggerel
for Our Leader Up On High
and for our Sisters and our Brothers
with whose fate mine is entwined.
As you read, hum "Turn the Page,"
if you all would be so kind.
You know, the bardic life's a tough one,
even for one whose dubbed a Dame;
always feeling an itinerant,
racking brains for rhymes so lame
with which to depict the ol' Cloud-Gatherer.*
But that's the price of fame.
There's the rape and pillage upside,
and yes, I do enjoy the shopping.
I meet the folks; I see the sights, plus
a few sloppy rounds of bar-hopping.
But the wheels just keep on turning;
there ain't no other way of stopping.
I'm sure it all looks rich and sexy,
and at times, okay, it is.
There's celebrity and power
and crowds of folks to stroke your id.
But spinning tales, it ain't all glamour;
there is a downside to show biz.
The bardic life, it is so lonely,
ambling from place to place to place;
never knowing how you got there,
living a life inside a suitcase.
Not a normal job per se,
but not quite free from the rat race.
Peddle your wares and sing your songs
and when They say to dance, you dance.
Never sure when to shut up
or when to stand and take your stance,
for every word and breath you take
is under strict surveillance.
Serve at the pleasure of the public,
which is never the same way twice:
for every one who bids the tale the same,
another wants a new device.
So proceeding's all a gamble,
yet another game of dice.
If you vary, someone protests.
If you repeat, somebody cries.
If you err, the blogs light up;
press heave their slippery sophist sighs.
All the while you're in the spotlight
daring not to shield your eyes.
Some days that chariot of fire
can really burn your ass;
but you smile and sign and smile some more
though They grab at your sassafras.
(Is it any wonder bards are drinkers,
or that many smoke a lot of grass?)
Then the lights go down, the crowds go home,
and you're back again to roaming:
neither here nor there but in liminis,*
in a constant state of gloaming.
Your body heads in one direction,
but your head's forever homing.
Thoughts and feet are always wandering,
like Seger and Orpheus before.
Every day playing the star again,
then peddling, pedaling some more;
you sail across the wine-dark sea
and highways by the score.
So you search for some place quiet
to find a moment to prepare.
Then again check your reflection;
for a third time brush your hair.
Because no matter what you say,
you know that everybody stares.
Some days you try for Dionysus
though all you get is Dr. Seuss;
but bringing stories to the world
is a time-honored pursuit,
whether told in pounding rhythms
or sung sweetly to a lute.
That's not to say that it's all drudgery;
sometimes it's even really cool.
E'en when results aren't fabulous,
you're still doing what you do.
From a fake bard to a real one,
I give this message quick to Stew:
You take care of yourself, y'hear?
Know that we dig the doo you voo.
And despite the crazy hoodoo,
we appreciate what you do.
Care for the Man behind the Myth,
cuz we'll see BOTH IN 22!!!
Notes:
* "Cloud-Gatherer" = traditional description of Zeus; i.e., Stewart
* "in liminis" (Latin) = on the threshold; i.e., in between places
Last edited by
DirtyMartini on 06 May 2007 03:20, edited 5 times in total.
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