The Great Barnaby-dale

Below this rock lies Barnaby-dale,

The great writer of many tales;

See his works lined on every shelves,

Everybody read, everybody delved.

When Barnaby-dale was alive

He was striving for a better life,

In London’s foggy streets he wanders

To find a story that people might wonder.

So he writes what he sees,

The woman, the drunkards, the boy, even the bees!

In every stroke of ink there’s a feeling,

To tell the story of these people’s dealings.

Critics said his tales were rubbish,

A mediocrity that stinks like a fish;

But Barnaby-dale continued writing

Even if criticism ferociously biting.

Barnaby-dale writes day by day

A hundred tales in the month of May.

But no one bought, not a single tome of his tales,

He was sad, his work has failed.

So in London, lives Barnaby-dale,

The unknown writer of many tales;

See his works rotting in the shelves,

Nobody reads, nobody delves.

Cold, hungry and homeless,

Despised, cursed and loveless;

Barnaby-dale moves to the country

Were nature and village is a sanctuary.

There he writes about birds not people,

Composed a song to the sun and praised an apple;

So Barnaby-dale found a peace at last,

Beyond those voices, beyond the shadows of the past.

But one somber night the great Barnaby-dale,

Choose to end his long tale.

On the hill of July, he whistles, he sang

Then on the darkness there was a bang!

So in the hill of July Barnaby-dale lays,

Gasping and panting his face turned pale,

Upon the light of the moon, the scarlet glows,

Then the shade comes and the wind blows.

As cold ascend up to his head,

He slept like a child longing for a bed,

Alone he slumbers on the silent, windy dale

The last act was done, he finished his tale.

And so in hill of July, slept, the great Barnaby-dale,

The unknown writer of many tales,

See his works forgotten in the shelves,

Nobody reads, nobody delved.

His body was found lifeless and alone

On the hill of July birds sings in a sweeter tone,

They buried him right on the spot where he lay,

It was sunny, quiet, a fine day of May.

The news spread about Barnaby-dale’s fate,

Everybody was shocked, everybody was amazed,

“Who the hell is Barnaby-dale?” one said

All answers: “A great writer, I love the tales he made!”

And so upon the death of Barnaby-dale

Out of curiosity, people read his tales,

The once hated, have been loved,

The once cursed, have been praised.

Then Barnaby-dale’s soul flew by,

Seeing the busy readers he began to smile,

As he flew towards the light,

He then hoped that the future will be bright!

And so in this book, lies the great Barnaby-dale,

The great writer of many tales;

See his works lined on every shelves,

Everybody read, everybody delved.