The Dreamers.


There was once a philosophizing cobbler, who lived
under a wooden bridge that crossed a little stream,
mainly because his wife was so argumentative that
when he said “a” she said “b.”

He wrote a manuscript, a thousand pages long, about
philosophical problems when applied to real life, and
also whether a donkey could think; his manuscript
was booze stained, ashy and difficult to read.

In winters, when the river froze over, he moved back
home to his bickering wife, she was not impressed
by his words, mocked his long sentences, but didn’t
mind warming her hands when burning his papers.

Every year he wrote a manuscript and every year his
wife put it to the fire till, one winter, he didn’t come
home because he had built a papyrus raft, floated to
the sea where his thoughts about life were fulfilled.

His wife cried but not for long she had a lest, and
cobbler’s needles, advertised and suitors came, she
picked one who couldn’t read, alas his silence drove
her mad; she fled and went to live under that bridge.

She wrote a disputation, a thousand pages long, but
it was instantly rejected by the academic community,
so she made a papyrus raft and floated to the sea to
try find what had made her husband fulfilled.


The Disappearance


There was a tramp, who lived under a wooden bridge
that crossed a stream that was lucid had shiny pebbles
and rainbow trout which he caught, fried and shared
with his dog that was big, black and looked like a bear.
When children crossed the bridge he thrillingly scared
them by asking: Who is walking on my bridge?” But
mostly he sang carols all by himself. Pious farmers
thought he was holy, left food hampers for him, made
the sign of the cross and felt good, went to church and
gave alms to the huddled poor by the sainted door.

But there were bad people too who threw stones at his
dog and shouted nasty words when crossing the bridge.
One night the tramp’s dog howled so madly that night
got scared ran off and dawn had to save the day by
arriving at one o’clock. The brave went to inspect and
found a grotto lit by candles it had the christmas aroma
of orange peel left drying on the stove. “Santa Claus has
gone forever they grieved, we mustn’t tell the children
though, so this coming winter one of us has to pretend
to be him to let the story of this man live on.