Upon a time, when history began,
The record of our people’s joy and strife
Was fashioned by the talents of a man
Who wove a lyric tapestry of life.
He stood up proudly in an era rife
With hardship, sculpted history from deed,
Wielded our tribal customs as a knife,
To carve conventions each of us must heed.
What maker stands to sing our heroes now?
How have our poets let it come to pass
That their sacred obligation became
Greed for recognition so low and crass
That lyrics and lies are to them the same?
Listening to the self styled avant-garde
I wonder: What has become of the bard?