This poem is dedicated to the man I see on my way to work every day, standing in front of the Little Caesar's pizza shop, playing his faux guitar...
On the way to work I saw a funny little man,
guitar on his shoulder and a small pick in his hand.
He sang an indistict song as the cars passed him by,
I chuckled as I passed when I heard his soulful cry.
I thought about that man as I drove back home from work,
do some find him amusing, while others just a jerk?
His guitar had no strings and his pick's a piece of wood,
it made me sad to think this was the way he earned his food.
Just then I had a thought, an epiphany of sorts,
this man could be a clown, or a jester in king's court.
For who's to say what's right or to judge a man's career,
how he feeds his family or the values he hold's dear?
Now when I drive past that little pizza shop on main,
I see the funny man singing tunes out in the rain.
The man I used to ridicule I've grown now to respect,
to judge a man I do not know has made me circumspect.