Give me a flit, a flop, or a fly,
Give me a song before I die.
I’ll work for wages, or beans or bread
But give me a verse before I’m dead.
I’ll sing for a bully or serve as a slave
I’ll pretend to be the lowliest knave.
Aye. give me the tune that sends me to sleep
where my sister can sew and my mother can weep.
Release to me seems all that life’s for
while heaven’s not here and not in store.
So eat and dance and celebrate
Before you know what, and what’s too late.
How small can you be?
How petite, how wee?
Does your nose scrape the ground
like a thinker profound
stooped by earth’s woes
till you’re sniffing your toes?
You’re the envy of worms
in wormified terms.
You won’t drown in rain
just swim where you’ve lain.
Gored or punched
not while you’re hunched.
Your head will get kisses
from motherly misses.
The faucets and fountains
will perch on high mountains;
you’ll imagine Nepal
when they’re not that tall,
and a fall’s a fall and not so far
when you drop from a stool
instead of a star.
Gene Goldfarb now lives in New York City, a deep well of inspiration. Besides writing, his favorite activities are reading, movies, international cuisine and travel. His poetry has appeared in Black Fox, Sheila-Na-Gig, Green Briar, Twenty-Two Twenty-Eight and elsewhere.
Entertaining and enjoyable reading!