He was out on the highway, and the moon was his guide.
We stopped for a coffee, when I gave him a ride.
I said, where are you going?
He said, any place is fine, we'll all be home someday.
It's just a matter of time.
I will always remember, how his face showed the years.
His hands, how they trembled, as he fought back the tears.
When he showed me a picture, of a lady with a child.
And he spoke, and he whispered, and he began to smile.
I was a poet,
a master of rhyme.
She was still young then, she was still in her prime.
We had a good life, there were songs to be sung.
She was a good wife, she gave me a son.
He was a fine boy, we watched him grow.
Then war shook our nation, and he had to go.
She died from a heartache, when he died in vain.
And I die a little more, every day.
This picture holds a memory, this is all that is mine.
For I am a poet,
a master of rhyme.
I am a poet, a master of rhyme.