wordsout by godfrey rust
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The Key


The poor man has a single key
to his sad and lonely room.
The watchman has a bunch of keys
and rattles them like doom.
The family man has a ring of keys
to guard his cares about.
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,
everybody 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.

Godfrey Rust 1995, godfrey@wordsout.co.uk. See here for permissions.