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Guest im not witty

the song of silas mcgee.

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Guest im not witty

Not a time of dragons, nor enchanted fruit,

no flying cars and hover boots, no shootouts around high noon, no battles fought, and no maidens swoon,


Fear nor dear reader, for trouble does abound, it lies hidden in the lack of sound, a town struck quiet is where we lay our scene, of a crusty old hobo name of Silas McGee,

And those whom he would bring off their knees,

who bow to

The secret man with muted face

who’s laid waste to what was once a place of sound and taste

sits stone still, mouth like a hyphen,

a smile-virgin with all the power, (or so it seems to those who had traded in the chance to speak and dream )


Our protagonist arrived one day, in a boxcar he had tucked away to seek the adventure found only in the act of seeking, and here he found

The secret man had long since crushed

the will of the townspeople dust And vague memories of what things once had been


but no one thought to challenge things, they of course, knew not to bring,

more trouble, better just to live life subtle, we’ve lost our voices and who knows what’s next they thought silently,


“We quite prefer this lifestyle, no screeching cars nor screaming child

who really needs to sing and talk, we could always write messages in chalk, careful though, don’t scratch the board, else suffer a fine or a day in court,

where punishment would certainly outweigh, the quite bearable pain of a day

without jokes and bangs, and ringing bells, or the ocean’s echo inside of conch shells who lay neglected in infinite armies across the shore,

who ache to be heard again, like

The people whose ears and mouths had slowly closed, clogged with regulations and things

Silas never bothered to mind at all, “I’m just passin through is all, and it seems to me you folks could use a little life back in your life,

their eyes begged Silas not to speak again, a hand over each ear for fear, of charges of aiding and abetting him,


he who dared to let such blasphemy escape so freely from his mouth, “who’s got yall fellers all clamed up, I'm just off the train from Lexington Kentuck, and I aint heard a bird chirp,

or even a burp out of a soul trapped in this place since I got here.”


They pointed him towards the foreboding castle in which the secret man made things happen, and went about the business of downcast eyes,

So Silas set out to walking, to ask this man why he’d stopped the talking and barred all the rest of sounds Silas held so dear,

Without fear he strode up to great iron doors which opened without a peep, and darkness sweet beckoned him to step on up,

Inside he wandered to a grand room, where this man would be, so he assumed.


And there he sat quiet on a throne,

the self appointed judge of noise who sat with the poise and rigid posture a person might come to fear if word got around,


But this man was as dead as dirt, for many a year judging by the style of his shirt (cause no one ever wears them kind anymore)

He hadn’t been alive for at least a decade but the people had followed the rules anyway, cause that’s the way it’d always been done,



Silas leaned out the great window and gave a hoarse shout, that trampled and avalanched ALL throughout, the town covered in silence like a dust or a fog,



and now the streets are filled with the song of Silas McGee,

with the song of Silas McGee,


with guitars strumming, voices in melody and the rhythm of drumming, they sing “you can outlaw the rain,

But the storm clouds are coming.”

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