"He's lazy, that he lies all day abed"
And that was hardly the unkindest thing they said
It's true he liked to sleep all day
That he'd become a creature of the night
But it's not as you might think
He wasn't one to raise hell, or tomcat around
He'd been a cat in his youth, he'd run that into the ground
Yet, somehow, working the graveyard shift, he found
In those quiet hours, a peace profound
And to read, softly read, his works aloud gave his spirits such a lift
That his carcass telluric could not keep his spirit earthbound
It came to pass in this wise
A girl, whose name he will not mention
But will say, she had the most beautiful eyes
Saw him one morning, and thought he looked a little red-eyed
And it was her intention
To fix him up with a soothing cup
Of Celestial Seasonings chamomile tea, with honey
"Drink it Steve," said she. "You can't get this stuff at Starbucks."
And suspecting she was right
He drank two cups and nodded off, and awakened late that night
Now he drinks two cups before bed each morn
Once dawn has blotted out the night's last starry light
Seated in his his easy chair outdoors, he writes all night
Poems, writ by the light of the stars
Later, when he became famous
His poems enchanted millions
But not before they first had charmed
The animals nocturnal of his backyard pavilions
A hungry few night-hunting crepuscular chameleons
And night's insects in their sheer gazillions
To which he recited the poems he wrote
To all life forms awake who would listen, he read them
And he wished sweet rest to all the rest
And dreams that did not disturb them
They say he used some special, secret ink
Condensed from the light of stars
Collected and stored against need; whatever
That's bogus, I think, taken altogether
But came the night he knew would come at last
He went outside, and the skies were overcast
Yet, he poured out the contents of a seemingly empty jar
And one could hear soft music, as from a faraway guitar
Well, call me a skeptic; I am, I'm a skeptical man
I saw something there, but I am no man's dupe
I saw the glow-in-the-dark remains of a radioactive can
Of postwar Campbell's alphabet soup
Steve had taken his work inside when it rained
And racked his brain for answers to the yet to be explained
He poured out letters, or fragments, or poems entire
Which burned with a most becoming celestial fire
Fading ere he could copy them. Intent upon his treasure
He poured the words of a poem into a strongbox, and he could recollect them
Cupped in his palm, they would cohere into a sphere
Like quicksilver; and, squeezed into little globules in his fist
Could be fixed in the box as words again, and read at leisure
Good night, he thought, what were the odds?
He'd be sent help from Mercury, the messenger of the gods
He saw a poem he read seven times, and fathomed not
These are the long-lost words of a long-lost poet
Whose words were taken up and sealed in light
Into the stars embroidered in the fabric of the night
Long-lost eons ago
Now I perceive I have streamed forth from some far star
And at long-last, I have come unto one
Who can see these long-lost words before his eyes
And read them, if he is very wise
If you are who I think you are
You are the one I seek
And I have sought you from afar
For you are the long-lost poet of whom I speak
There was a poet whose name was Steve
Many a year ago
And he wrote of things you wouldn't believe
Things no mere man should know
And one fine day he took his leave
As he thought it was time to go
Soon to be forgotten, friends
His poems and all his words
Broadcast to the winds
In the language of the birds
For even ancient poets must meet their ends
And Steve, he never did anything by thirds
