Saturday, 29 July 2017


     Young Albert was a shyish lad, who didn't mix too well,
       and when he started his new school, his classmates made life hell.
       He liked to draw, he liked to write, he liked to read, and think,
       the others liked football and sports, so he was 'out-of-sync'.

       The other pupils thought him odd, they mocked his speech, his looks;
       he had no friends among his peers, his only friends were books.
       But there was one to whom he dearly wished he could relate,
       a girl he hoped to find the nerve to ask out on a date.

       A mere three desks away from him sat lovely Lucy Brown,
       at last the lad dared ask her out - she flatly turned him down.
       "I don't go out with geeks or freaks," she had so cruelly said,
       in his humiliation Albert wished that he was dead.

       A bitter lesson Albert learned on that most fateful day,
       the game of life is one that's sometimes very hard to play.
       So he withdrew into himself and set his face like stone,
       and where he walked, fate had decreed that he should walk alone.

       In school one day, the teacher said "A poem all shall write.
       Profundity should be your aim - avoid the bland or trite."
       Young Albert set to work and lo, at his endeavour's end,
       he'd far exceeded teacher's goal, a mighty work he'd penned.

       His poem spoke of life and love, of all its hopes and fears,
       and all who read the poignant work, could scarce hold back their tears.
       In stately rhyme, young Albert's words had struck a common cord,
       with phrase so keen, he proved the pen cuts deeper than the sword.

       The poem's fame soon spread beyond the confines of the class,
       some said his verse would wring a tear from eyes made out of glass.
       It didn't take too long 'til it was known throughout the school,
       They hailed it as a masterpiece, regarded it as "Cool".

       "Best ode we've ever read," they said, "such first-class poetry.
       It should be printed in a book, for all posterity."
       At last a publisher was sought to set the work in print,
       "Should write some more," their spokesman said, "you'd make yourself a mint."

       But Albert never wrote again - he'd hit 'creator's slump'.
       The fact was that, in truth, he was a 'spring' and not a 'pump'.
       In that one burst of brilliance he'd said all he had to say,
       and what he'd said could not be said in any better way.

       Young Albert died at seventeen, struck down by some 'malaise',
       But God, we're told, so often moves in such mysterious ways.
       In years to come, when his school chums have fallen prey to time,
       they'll be forgot - but Albert's name will live on through his rhyme.

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