BALLAD BLUE

I'm in a town I did not build,
my room is rather mean.
The fleas are leaping 'round and 'round -
my body's not that clean.

I stopped at Freddy's for the cure,
the cost was not too high.
I cannot scratch another spot -
I'd rather see them die.

I'm not an outcast in this town:
Typhoid Mary who?
I slipped and fell, but who has not -
that's why this poem's not blue.

I'll spray my room, and scrub my face
until my life is new.
I'll stay away from Smoky Hell -
make all my dreams come true.

I'll stay inside and write a book
about the world I knew:
The streetwise boys and moonlight girls -
their eyes were baby-blue.

My room is small, my pockets bare,
yet I write this poem for you.
The grungy loner took a bath -
I'm fit for Powell's - it's true.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell