6. Robert Quinn

There’s a old pompous house

On the outside of town

Where the dirt matches well with the paint

Windows are broken

And words are not spoken 

Tween tenant and postman and maid

And the man inside

Lives off remnants of pride

Back when he used to write

Before clouds came and poisoned his mind

Now he searches through ash trays for letters

That will hopefully help him remember

Who he was

He finds none

Poor Robert Quinn

Got lost in his cigarettes and gin

Forgot all of his words

So the world forgot all about him.

He was king of his art

Back when his mind was sharp

And his hair hadn’t started to grey

He got his fame

From his heroes and dames

And his stories that read like poetry

And he saw no end

To his talent or his fortune

 Even when the lines blurred

He'd just blame it on living and liquor

Now he searches through ash trays for letters

That will hopefully help him remember

Who he was

He finds none

Poor Robert Quinn

Got lost in his cigarettes and gin

Forgot all of his words

So the world forgot all about him.

And poor Robert fell

Down to through the pages he’d slaved upon

Past demons and queens to oblivion

While his readers and peers grew so bored

Of his dazed eyes and lack of rapport

Til they shoved thoughts of him far away

Til he followed and that’s where he stays

Now he sits in his house 

On the outside of town

With his eyes plastered to the tv

The pictures seem hazy

Through smoke and his brandy

But he can’t understand them anyway