An Appeal
Scorn not the bard,
For though her words stumble,
They spring from the depths
Of an over-full heart.
Scorn not the bard
As she craves your indulgence
To lend a kind ear
To her rudely penned art.
Her wording is clumsy,
Her pen is ungraceful.
Her rhyming is flawed,
She has no novel thought.
She sits in the shadow
Of those who are greater,
She sits and is humble,
Pretending to naught.
Scorn not her song,
And you'll plumb for a moment,
The depths of her heart,
Be it mournful or gay.
You'll look for an instant
Into her soul's workings,
Though rudely expressed
In the lines of her lay.
Perhaps it may be
That in heart all are equals-
Their works to be judged
By the soul that shines through.
So scorn not the bard,
Or her humble poems
Though lacking in polish,
Their heart-core is true.
Into her soul's workings,
Though rudely expressed
In the lines of her lay.
Perhaps it may be
That in heart all are equals-
Their works to be judged
By the soul that shines through.
So scorn not the bard,
Or her humble poems
Though lacking in polish,
Their heart-core is true.
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