1971
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
Smith
Smith lives noisily upon the grassy hill. He shouts he cries he yells he sings. The voice coming from him gives a shrill. He ponders wants talks flys with wings. Smith don't care How others fare He knows everything as long as its about Himself. Smith looks fine Has smoothest line He craves everything but never has no Wealth. Smith climbs his dreams on his grassy hill. He grunts he pants he tries he dies. And he has no one for whom to write a will. At the bottom he broken crumpled lies.
copyright 2001 by Michael F. Nyiri
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