Elegy For A Poet Poem by David Lewis Paget

I hark back to the days when I
Began, in pen and ink,
To scrawl some petty poems,
How to feel, and how to think,
And people seemed to like the way
My simple little rhymes
Would trace a basic pattern
Through the heartache of their times.

So I continued writing; then
I typed my manuscripts,
I hit the keys so hard that
All my paper fell to bits,
But still I persevered, until
Computers stole the scene,
And little plastic keyboards
Put the words up on a screen.

But all along I used the name
Of Earle E. Everett,
I used it in the magazines,
And on the Internet,
My work was always copyright
I'd scrawl that little ©,
To keep the rights forever
For my family and me.

Then recently, while surfing through
A site I'd never seen,
A poem that I'd written years ago
Came on the screen,
I read it with nostalgia then,
I sat and read it all,
But written at the bottom was
The name of - 'Charles McFall'.

I looked in vain for something
That would say that it was mine,
That poem was a grape I'd plucked,
New fallen from the vine,
But nowhere did it state the name
I'd always seen there yet,
No sign that it was written by
The poet Everett.

I sat there stunned, and fearful
And angry, fit to burst,
I mailed the new Webmaster,
And I must admit - I cursed!
I said that stolen copyrights
Would take him straight to hell,
But there was no reply, the site
Was 'Unavailable.'

For weeks, until the early hours
I scanned that little screen,
I looked in vain for Everett,
The poet I had been;
But one by one my poems
On the sites, both one and all,
They ended with the message -
Copyright, by Charles McFall.

I went into the Office, thought
To phone the Inter-police,
For surely they could help me,
Could advise me on the case,
But then I met Security, they'd
Locked the Office down,
They said I didn't work there,
So I staggered off to town.

I thought I'd better phone the wife
I'd left in bed asleep,
I had an awful feeling, and
That feeling wouldn't keep,
I rang the mobile number, and
I said: 'Is that you, Darls? '
She muttered in her sleepiness:
'You'll want my husband, Charles! '

I'm sleeping in the gutter, in
A big old cardboard box,
Some hobo caught me sleeping
And he stole my shoes and socks.
I've given up on poetry,
On writing overall,
You'll hear no more from Everett,
I'm merely….

Charles McFall

23 July 2008