Can a poet live here
Can an artist be found
When not even a latte
Can be bought in this town
Of course no one suffers
In the chapel on the hill
Its as quaint as the postcard
With the old worn red mill
But there is desperation
crying out from the trees
The pain is quite real
In the hungry child's pleas
If I give it a voice
Set to meter and rhyme
What will you call it
Will you give it due time
I'm doubtful your cred
even comes from the street
But rather it comes
From the club where you meet
So pardon me please
Great guardian of art
But I still have a mind
And a voice for my heart