The Busker
Posted: Thu Dec 06, 2012 4:02 pm
Like John I posted this on Bush verse a couple of days ago, hadn’t posted anything there for awhile either.
Have tweaked it a little since.
The Busker
I see him there from time to time, he’s old and grey; well past his prime
and strums that old guitar of his and sings his songs for hours some days.
His voice though aged still holds a tune to all the songs you’ll hear him croon
while sitting in the shade somewhere, but few who pass will offer praise
Each time he’s there I place coins in his battered old collection tin
that’s on the ground near his wheelchair, in which he sits to sings his songs.
He smiles at me with thankful eyes as though he’d won a special prize,
which brightens up my day no end and it’s to him where thanks belongs.
I often sit in chairs nearby and watch this man whose game to try
and entertain, yet be ignored by nearly all the passing throng.
It doesn’t seem to worry him although you’d think he’d find it grim;
most people seeming unaware and seldom pause to hear a song.
The passing crowd’s just hurry by; no time to look or wonder why
the old bloke comes to serenade, this constant passing human tide.
They rush on by without a glance as though they’re moving in a trance
with ears to phones or texting friends, still unaware he there outside.
I watched him as he left one day; his wife, I guessed, wheeled him away,
he’d smiled at her when she arrived then pointed to the few coins there.
She kissed his cheek and tucked him in then whispered words which brought a grin,
then slowly pushed him down the path towards their home ahead somewhere.
© T.E.Piggott
Have tweaked it a little since.
The Busker
I see him there from time to time, he’s old and grey; well past his prime
and strums that old guitar of his and sings his songs for hours some days.
His voice though aged still holds a tune to all the songs you’ll hear him croon
while sitting in the shade somewhere, but few who pass will offer praise
Each time he’s there I place coins in his battered old collection tin
that’s on the ground near his wheelchair, in which he sits to sings his songs.
He smiles at me with thankful eyes as though he’d won a special prize,
which brightens up my day no end and it’s to him where thanks belongs.
I often sit in chairs nearby and watch this man whose game to try
and entertain, yet be ignored by nearly all the passing throng.
It doesn’t seem to worry him although you’d think he’d find it grim;
most people seeming unaware and seldom pause to hear a song.
The passing crowd’s just hurry by; no time to look or wonder why
the old bloke comes to serenade, this constant passing human tide.
They rush on by without a glance as though they’re moving in a trance
with ears to phones or texting friends, still unaware he there outside.
I watched him as he left one day; his wife, I guessed, wheeled him away,
he’d smiled at her when she arrived then pointed to the few coins there.
She kissed his cheek and tucked him in then whispered words which brought a grin,
then slowly pushed him down the path towards their home ahead somewhere.
© T.E.Piggott