Feature Poet
We Are The Music Makers
We are the music makers,
We are the dreamers of dreams,
But we’ll never out-master the Masters
with the poems that we write, so it seems.
O, My Love is like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June
But we cannot improve on that melody...
Rabbie Burns gave life to that tune.
I must go down to the sea again,
To the lonely sea and the sky,
We seldom achieve such eloquence
however hard we try.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of death, rode the six hundred...
Has anyone wondered, how Tennyson
thundered?
I take thee for richer, for poorer,
I take thee for better or worse.
The wonderful book of Common Prayer...
un-excelled both in prose and in verse.
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner!
Sink her, split her in twain,
Fall into the hands of God
...Tennyson does it again!
Eleanor Rigby died at the Church
and was buried, along with her name;
Nobody came...
but the Beatles knew
Just how to sing verse and to make it ring true!
There was movement at the station,
for the word had passed around
that the colt from Old Regret had got away
Banjo Patterson’s a winner any day!
It was a lover and his lass,
with a hey, ho, the wind and the rain...
How did Shakespeare ever come to pass?
We’ll never see his like again!
Tho’ we think we’re the Music Makers,
the truth is clear, for it seems...
we’ll never out-master the Masters,
not in our wildest dreams!
© Mary L. Kille
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