He is a false prophet,
They said
But his prophesies come true.
How come,
I asked
Is he a false prophet then?
Because, they replied
he is not ours.
Ahh well then, said I
Happily dear sirs, the great prophet who lends his name to you,
I shall take it off your tired weary hands,
Give him to me, and his name to prophets of mine
For your poets are long gone, unheard and unsung
It is he who gives them voice, he who makes them sing
Allow me sirs,
To have my poets be heard and be sung
And give rest to those of yours that are of the yore.
No no
They said
He is a false prophet
But prophesies he does make
Heretic that he is
His words are not fake
Not as fake as him
We will keep his name
But we will bitch and moan
Maybe someday, if we cry loud enough
He will become one of our own.
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