I write a song of a clever man
who wrote with skill and flare,
conceiving a saga of every man’s
sense of life, love and despair.
He wrote through the eyes of an everyman
who lived his life in his poems;
yet, he thought, “I don’t like my everyman
bearing a fictitious name;
I’ll be my very Everyman
and write as I were the same.”
So, our clever man became his Everyman.
And his Everyman, clever man’s dream.
Our writer and his character
became more than just a theme.
Then every man bought clever man’s books
and Everyman wore the fame.
Everyman’s persona became
larger than life, as the twain
Success grew great for our clever man,
but he greyed, inking Everyman’s life.
In time, an aged clever man,
pen in hand chasing his name,
lost his self to his Everyman;
a slave to his self-made fame.
Without all consuming passion
great works never rise.
The price of greatness is always great;
the artist for the prize.