Flame haired Wainwright felt the pain
His mother,
the object of maternity,
with knocking at the door,
neighbors doubting his paternity,
he was hidden in a drawer
No wonder then,
as I tell,
of a man obsessed by fells,
and meticulous notebooks
shying away from familiar looks
and shouts of are you him?
Would answer,
with a whim,
yonder is the man you seek,
the one that wanders and wonders
over peaks
Not I.
A shy man,
knowing the risks,
invited onto desert island discs
replied,for his eight songs
with a known dislike
for flocks and throngs
with a love that he found
from places with barely a sound.
Silence knows no wrongs.
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