Jack, for that was his name
Jack rearranged his life
He was not a poet, nor a singer
Or a storyteller
No, writing words
Was not his road to fame
Nor was he a happy Jack
Or nimble or quick
Or that famous stone rolling
He was no moss gathering
Jumping jack flash
With cracked open champagne
Rolling down the lane
His moulded words
Never turned the same
He unfolded herds
Of herringbone
To sail alone
For lonesome was his game
One day he met a miner
Many years ago
He wrote
That he met a sailor
On a Eastern European boat
One day, he said he’d never forget
In the mills of steel
He feels for the cotton workers
With the silent bobbin reels
Jack, for that was his name
Jack rearranged his life
He was not a poet
Nor a singer
Or a storyteller
No, writing words
Was not his road to fame
Nor was he a dapper Jack
Or the ripper by another name
Or that slipper Jack; from the yard
Who caught the robbers of the train
He called the agent, the publisher
He called the girl from Maine
He sold the rights on dark deep nights
But never wrote again
One day he met a tailor
A cutter of the cloth for all of those who reign
Another day he met the blacksmith
And the cobbler who shod the shoes to remain
One day, he said he’d never forget
The echoes of the wheels which he feels
For the farm workers, the country folk
Who sing of empty harvest fields
Jack, for that is his name
And Jack has rearranged his life
He is now a poet, he is a singer
And a storyteller too
Yes, writing words
Are now his road to fame
Believe you me, it is true
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