Mozart and Me
By larry r linville

At eight Mozart wrote his first music
which seems to me to be quite scary.
The only thing at did at that age
was look under toad stools for a fairy.

When he played musical instruments
I couldn’t do any music thing
I wanted to be in the church choir
but people said I couldn’t sing.

They say he was a young prodigy.
I didn’t even know what that means.
He was at concerts and other things
but I never took in those scenes.

My family was very musical
Both of my grandpas could play a horn.
One tried to teach me to play trumpet
but soon told me to go plow some corn.

I wanted to be a musician
I bought a guitar on a bet.
They told me it would take time to learn
and insured me that I shouldn’t fret.

I’ve played a guitar for fifty years.
It came pretty easy from the start.
If I start bragging about my skill
I’m reminded I’m not a Mozart.

Wear Out or Rust Out?
By larry r Linville

I’ve been retired for several years
but I’ve kept running all about
I can’t just sit around and loaf.
I’d rather wear out then rust out.

Some folks think I should sit and eat
things like frankfurters and sauerkraut
but I catch my meals on the run.
I’d rather wear out than rust out.

I could complain about old age
while I just sit around and pout
but my schedule is so busy.
I’d rather wear out than rust out.

My doctor said my iron was low
lab test revealed there was no doubt.
So I guess I can still wear down
but without iron I can’t rust out.

Hitchhiker and Old Lady
By larry r Linville

He stands beside the highway
all possessions in a sack.
His thumb is lifted upward
and he’s always looking back.

He spent last night in his bed roll
on a picnic table at a park
a stray dog laying by him
watching over him in the dark.

He scavenges in trash barrels
to find something he can eat.
A sandwich and stale french fries
seem like a bountiful treat.

Fancy cars speed right by him
with a big sneer on their face.
They see him as an object
as they speak of such disgrace.

One car stopped to help him
and he saw a bible on the seat.
He didn’t want a sermon
but he had to rest his feet.

“Where are you headed, Sonny?”
asked the old lady in the car.
“I don’t know where I’m going,
but I’ve already gone far.”

She drove to the nearest city
and stopped at a nice café.
She order him a hearty meal
and used her pension check to pay.

“You remind me of my own son
who left one day long ago.”
She patted his rough chapped hand
with her wrinkled face aglow.

“I never saw my boy again.
I don’t know where he ever went,
but the chance I’ve had to help you
is a gift that’s heaven sent.”

He saw her cell phone by her hand
as he reach for his dirty comb
and asked her for permission
to call his mother at home.

When the call was over
and his tears were all wiped dry
bus money was on the table
and the lady said, “Good bye.”

The boy rode a Greyhound home
to his mother’s loving kisses.
The lady’s house was less empty
for her son which she still misses.