Trying to write like Bob Dylan

underneath the applecart
upset by foul mischance
sleeps the aging jester
too tired for his last dance

came the juggler strutting by
tossing seven balls
each one was another day
some big and some were small

the jester tripped upon a stone
and fell on bended knee
he cried aloud his hackneyed phrase
why me, o Lord, why me?

and then then the old boy struggled up
and slowly limped away
fearing that some nitwit
would complicate his day.

1970