Still to Tell

Allen Graves was a poet.
Why was he a poet? Well,
He loved to make things with words,

To express his opinions,
To capture conversations
Carrying on in his head,

But he had learned he could not
Tell stories to save his life.
Poetry it had to be.

Still, like a starving beggar
Trying to coax villagers
Into making meals for him,

He tried his hand at small cons,
Like pretending to make soup
From boiling water and stones.

Daily and diligently
He practiced patter and charm,
Trying to get his pitch down

By chattering with a stone.
You see, all you need is salt
And onions for more flavor,

Maybe a carrot or two.
The villagers would spot him
Muttering by the wayside

And give him a wide berth or
Report him to the police
Who would come and clear him off.

He never got his story
Straight, but a few of those stones
Were sure left with tales to tell.