A Wretch Like Me

Amazing grace, was a nice idea,
To save a wretch like me,
But what once was lost
seems bound to be.
And now, I think, I’m stuck.

Or at least struck by those
Lightning bolts Whoever
keeps tossing at me.
He or She? I don’t care
I just wish they’d stop
Lightning striking me.

If a little drummer boy
really played for a baby,
The parumpapumpum would
wake up the baby up and that stillness,
That all infants deserve,
Would be all disturbed.
So that gift was dumb.
And that little percussionist
should have to lull that baby back to sleep.
Or get struck by some Lightning.

Amazing grace, was a sweet sound
but someone stopped playing.
There are no harps or trumpets
and the sooner we realize
that sometimes it’s nice to be blind,
The sooner we can relax,
Find some sort of piece of mind
(In what’s lost),
And try to relearn that beautiful
(But mixed up)
word: fine.

Or at least skirt the real issue
and talk about things in riddles
that you will never understand
because sometimes I don’t want you to.
Rock a bye baby, on the tree top,
When the wind blows, that drum will pop.
When the sticks break, the cradle will
rock
And down come expectations,
Hopes, dreams, and all
that might have saved
a wretch like me.