Mr. Melsterhoyle

Picture Mr. Melsterhoyle sitting timidly,
On the bench in Mervin Park by the gentle Whisper Sea.
He’s milking dry the moment of a dawn that dons a smile,
But the bench is all his own, all alone beneath the tree.

He’s waiting for the baiting of the line of Mr. Kyle,
Who walks the shores each morn, whistling briskly all the while,
And Mr. Melsterhoyle, whose secrets keep him there,
Just watches from a distance keeping low on his profile.

He wears a tilted bowler cap which messes up his hair,
And as Mr. Kyle makes his way, he sits and sulks and stares,
“I wish that I could fish,” says the man upon the bench,
But instead he just remains and whispers low, “It isn’t fair.”

Poor old Mr. Melsterhoyle, unmoving as a wrench,
Doesn’t seem to realize his nightmare needs a pinch:
A touch of get-up-go just to lift him to his feet,
But he’s settled for the metal of a rusting musty bench.

Mr. Kyle whistles as the thistles bob the beat,
And he has secrets too, but he doesn’t see defeat,
Instead he fishes with his friends and wishes them quite well,
But poor ol' Mr. Melsterhoyle's missing life himself.