Soul of a Poet Life of a Child

  He thought himself a poetDestined to live this lieHe wrote the words that no one readsAnd the world would pass him by For he had no educationHe could barely read or writeBut still he wrote his simple wordsHis spelling never right Eighty years old he's seen it allThough he seldom understandsForced to live a simple lifeA life that fate demands He writes his poems everywhereEven on the back of a cereal boxHe sleeps all day and writes all nightIn his underwear and  socks A fall when he was three years oldLeft his brain a little slowFor eighty long years he spoke as a childWith a mind that wouldn't grow The soul of a poet and the life of a childHe wrote what he felt insideHe smiled as he wrote his simple wordsAs his heart was filled with pride