Notes on an Old Hack

Of fate, and faith and whimsy
Notes on a passing day,
That dawn of fleeting passion
Those early scribes of scripture,
Became artisan,
With widened hearts,
Leather-edged,
From being beaten, and beaten
By laughter,
"What will words become you?
Will they see you through the long?"
The never ending daybreak,
But they sang of cuckoo song,
And maiden passage - these early scribes
Romance was not of fashion,
Statements of plain,
Browbeaten by that land of old
Of storms, and God, and all things
Proven,
Asphyxiated by obligation
To stretch into the daybreak,
Of ochre and mauve and chartreuse
And teal,
Those notes,
Predicted vastly