Song of Sixpence

I am compelled to essay on the assay of those to whom that depicted sign refers.

I am compelled to sing a song of sixpence earned by those who show up.

I am awed and puzzled by the miracle of those who still dispassionately shrug and humbly ask,

“What’s it pay?”

Then, show-up.

At a gas station, the pumper quips, snaps my fuel door shut and sends me along with, “Watch out for those humans out there. They’re unpredictable!”

Even though, both his own

Corneas are white-scar-occluded from long ago, when his face was burned away.

Where can he possibly be going?

On tops - twenty-five hours a week? Why isn’t the excitement and energy that grievously wounded fine young fellow gushes constantly – why isn’t he stopped or even slowed by the endless dragging of hoses or the mechanical, procedural, obligatory “Would you mind pulling up to the next pump?” and “Do you want your receipt?”

Why, why?

Does he show-up?

Four and twenty black birds baked in a pie.

Why oh why?

Does he send me along every time grinning and lifted by his joking sublimity?

He sings his merry song of sixpence.

If I tipped him, he’d have seven or even nine.

I will tip him.

I will tip him as long as I can show up.

I will tip my hero ‘til I die.