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The Key


The poor man has a single key
to his sad and wretched room.
The official man has a bunch of keys
and he rattles them like doom.
The family man has a ring of keys
to guard his cares about,
but I need no key—
no lock can keep me out. 

Chance is my counsellor,
Luxury my house,
Pleasure is my mistress,
Jealousy my spouse,
Pride is my sustenance,
Anger my advice,
Nothing my religion,
Everything my price.  

So roll up, roll up—
anybody wins!
Faites vos jeux, mesdames messieurs,
roll away your sins.
Everybody gets a prize
who plays my little game—
behind each painted door
the prize is just the same.

Third of five poems in the poetry/mime production OnlyWood, with John and Carina Persson (1995).

Godfrey Rust, godfrey@wordsout.co.uk. See here for details of permissions for use.