Next to a big Box Elder tree
my smithy plies his trade,
convinced that this career field
was the worst mistake he made.
His meager daily earnings
leave him grossly underpaid.
His stringy hair and whiskered face
show lack of self esteem.
His bleary eyes and shaky stance
suggest a nightmare dream.
In short he looks to most as though
his engine needs more steam.
Some days he works from morn 'til night
when there's a horse to shoe;
At other times, he sits and smokes
with nothing else to do.
He'd love to leave this line of work
and look for something new.
The kids that pass his blacksmith shop
don't stop to say hello.
He's grouchy and he don't like kids,
and curtly tells them so.
They taunt him with cruel verbal jabs--
He tells them where to go !
He never goes to Sunday School,
He doesn't seem to care;
'twould foster juicy gossip
if the townsfolk saw him there
and surely cause the parson to
intone an extra prayer.
Reflecting on his sorry lot
he trudges on through life,
convinced that fate has doomed him to
this world of toil and strife.
He's angry at the world
that he can't blame it on a wife!
Don Tidwell