If I was an athlete or movie star,
if I was a singer or driver in NASCAR,
if I was on TV as a game show host,
I’d be recognized by all from coast to coast.
 
Should I be seen in public, people would flock to me;
the price of fame is simple: lack of privacy.
They’d notice how I dress, the way I wear my hair;
their attention would be more than I could bear.
 
But I don’t have those problems; people walk on by.
They don’t even wave; the girls don’t cast a sigh.
I have a gift with words; folks don’t even know it.
If they did they might say I am “just a poet.”
 
My words might make you think or pose the question, ”Why?”
Or when my poem is done, a tear might fill your eye.
The words I write might tickle, give you cause to laugh,
but never am I asked for my autograph.
 
I like the life I have, wouldn’t opt for fame;
I am quite content that no one knows my name.
I find satisfaction, put my work into a book
and freely walk the streets, don’t get a second look.