Lance Schaubert

A homeless man from Ivria
Had known the sewers well
For he had known the sounds of halls
Made thick for shipping hell
He swam the slush of others’ junk
And listen to the sound
He came to love the melody
And let it make the rounds

Till one lone day he found a brush
And used some excess paint
He painted all the sewer walls
And made fun from the quaint
See he too came from Ivria
He too hailed from the west
His father was a working man
A workin’ for the least
But in his workaholic mode
He met none of sons’ needs
And in so doing broke the code
Of raising family

But though he landed in the dump
Though dwelled in swamp refuse
He took surroundings, pulled the trump card
With what could be used
Some wilted roses mashed & mixed
Some melted cheese with mold
Some ancient copper now turned green
Some blueberries now cold
Some violets from smashed pottery
Some white from rice-stained pans
All colors of his rainbow came
And soon found hue in hand

And as he painted on the walls
(Long after warrior came)
The mural drew the herald’s calls
To spread the painting’s fame
All Scotland came to see the sight
(And some from clover fields)
This eastern beggar turned it right
Because of artist’s zeal
He made some from admission’s price
To fund his brother’s stay
And found a cottage warm & nice
For wooing forth a dame

He only lived for those he loved
He lived not for the fame
And by divine-bred grace above
He painted all the same

She had a heart, a heart of gold
But few would ever know
She walks with feather feet of old
With no weight clear to show.
With bouncing step, with lightened stride
With love to give, to grow
With hearts and hands to give to poor
And every smile to show.

But on a softer afternoon
Oblivious to foes
She entered in a widow’s shop
In culture made of woes
The widow lived on only alms
Lived not on what she sold
Until that point, Maid Florris graced
Each widow with her smile
But some would come from her own race
And murder her work’s diol 

She walked into a shop that day
Along with her own race
They toured long and toured late
But had no plan to stay
Till one grabbed ‘hold a fine earring
Off widow’s fine display
And caught, the young girl flushed out guilt
For widow soon would say:
“You need the money from the sale?
You’d steal from beggars hands?
I know your kind, I know you’re pale!
I see your thieving band!” 

And since she loved and gave so much
And since held widows dear
The maid of Florris died of such
A tragedy, a fear. 

And all would gather to the town
Of Florris for her there
For one lone myth of her was true
Her heart had weight to bear
It rose out of her gracious chest
A golden jewel of hope
It paid for widows and the rest
Of Florris who can’t cope.