We called him the woollen man,
For he never learnt to tell the truth.
He'd tell you all sorts of stories,
Of wondrous places he had been.

Describing in great detail every little thing,
With sights the world had never seen.
The more enamored people were of him,
Each story emanating from his book of dreams.

Someone once told me,
He had fallen on his feet.
Hired by no other than so and so,
That worked in the grand hotel.

Traveling around to different places,
Being taught how to be a great commis chef.
Going to Italy, India, and china learning how to cook,
Stories flowed vividly as though they'd come from a book.

It was a wonder he never lost any sleep,
He would show the velvet bag he was allowed to keep.
When he used to transport diamond's,
From the African mines to a place of safety.
Couldn't say where official secrets act and all that.

The woollen man I called him,
The spinner of so many different yarn.
With an imagination so incredibly rare,
Stories that would make a blind man weep.
Wish he'd written books,
He had so much charisma and flair.

He could've been anything he wanted to be,
His imagination was rampant and free.
He was a believable story teller to you;
But he was a incredible brother to me.

Poetry by Alan J Ripley The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 79 times
Written on 2023-08-09 at 01:09

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Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
That's a nice tribute, Allen.
Blessings, Allen