The post before was an excerpt from my newest story.

Unfortunately, I might not post it here. Oh well.

Anyway, here is my poem:
A Copperman sits, writing on a slate,
writing for food
that isn’t on his plate.
Yet his arts will not prevail
the way people smile at his work
and sell them by his name by the gale .
Silverman grabs Copperman’s work
buying it and selling it in his OWN name
Copper notices how he lurks.
Goldman plucks the slate from Silverman
He pays with money of all kind.
Copper sees his a boastin’ man.

Copper’s slate, once empty now filled,
with works of his own.
Quite awhile later, he needed another slate!

A Copperman sits, writing upon a slate,
writing for more belonging
which will always be on his plate.

Do you like it? I sent to my grandpa by email, cause basically it’s for him. It’s an old-fashion like poem, and I spent a lot of time working on it. . . Anyway, write your opinion as a comment!