He drank his coffee, waited it out, ’til someone pulled in as soon as they saw the sign, gave him the thumbs up, a shout
He would smile, wait for a while, see that they weren’t playing a joke
One last toke before heading on, feeling proud of his poetry, his unquenchable thirst when it came to telling folks his stories
The fact of the matter was this, he had no real alternative than to show it, and that my friends was why this poet had a sign
Told a thousand times that he was quite possibly one of the finest in the land, with a quick wit, a remarkably deft hand
The driver spoke, “I’ve seen you before, thumbing right outside our front door, so while the wife and I dined last night the wine got to flowing, and low and behold I woke up this morning needing to know if you would in fact show”
The poet told him what he did, then asked, “What for you might work a treat?”
The driver turned his head in his direction, “Jesus Christ, just an early suggestion here but you might like to sort out that God awful honk coming from your feet!”
He ignored the jibe, described how he liked to spend his spare time down the gym, a none too taxing task
“But I’m your taxi!”
He looked at him twice as hard, the driver’s left ear appearing seemingly charred
More trouble than it was worth, and besides that the pen in his back pocket had leaked
Left unattended, ink all over the bottom half of his already crusty shirt
Not so deft now
So he decided he’d allow this one some time, wait ’til he returned home the following morning to go about this particular rhyme