More than most men he spurned
The dither of indecision,
Affixed his signature as though
The autograph were a warrant.
The consequences acted for him,
His regent when he went astray
From his existential destiny
Of plumbing popular despair
With the twang of his guitar.
The words which he tortured on the rack
Of the tunes which he griped,
Solaced, sufficed, an inbred therapy
For the usual malady
Of fearing to be second rate.
His innocence disarmed, adding much
To his well-deserved income.
Scorn not his minstrelsy,
Which assuages mania
In those preparing to be old
Here in this song-less world.
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