Self-Named: Always-My-Words

It was hard to compete With the likes of Pete, a poet wordsmith Many like me admired and aspired. His art & his wit were like… Well, a multi-coloured rainbow, A Tiffany glass lampshade That shone on the desk of a darkened world. At times Pete's words were opalescent At others He was just infectiously pleasant Like all well-oiled sunshine is after a raincloud. But here was a man to esteem; Whose words clip-clopped along at some pace And speed, elegance and grace. Do you know what I mean? Like a racehorse that's never lost a race Never came close to conceding into second place But have the good breeding, poise and sense Have the decency, the charm of a man unassuming. He was never, never, a pretentious prig. He was always a poet with an olive sprig, He was a poet with an olive branch of friendship. A bother I guess of unequal laureateship. Ode to Pete Crepeau