A piece of driftwood floating along
Across a lake for near two score
It seems right worthy of a song
Though poetry it settles for
This rhyme and meter may be obsolete
To the sound of rhythm and of beat
Though it's what it gets for drifting there
Not song, not book, nor picture I swear
This wood that floats is not that rare
So who will remember him for being there?
Just a hum-drum poet staring at
the lake that it travels on
Oh Mr. Driftwood where will you go
Who will remember your time spent here
Other than me that is sitting here?
Float along and drift away
Just leave it to me to state and say
That This driftwood here it once was there
drift on my friend
go out, drift on.