No Pavarotti

No Pavarotti

"You ain't no Pavarotti",

Said the grumpy frumpy grandma

At the farmer's market shuffling past me.

I stopped playing my guitar and harmonica.

We stood and stared each other down.

No Pavarotti! Where does she get the gall.

Snarky remarks in my mind made my forehead frown.

My words were sharp and sarcastic one and all.

Despite the sharp challenge still in her eyes,

I chose to try a little bit of kindness.

I remembered the words from the book of the wise.

A gentle answer deflects crisis.

First I thought I'd try humour.

"Pavarotti?" I patted my belly. "You saying I'm his twin?"

That really seemed to tickle her.

"No, he can sing. You can't" I just can't win.

"You ain't no Pavarotti. Why do you sing here?"

Ah, so it's a logic diatribe you want.

"Farmer's market. You thought you'd find Pavarotti there?"

No, this little lady I could not daunt.

"You're not a professional. Why sing?"

"Because I love to, I want, and they let me.

I know I'm not the Prince of Pop, the Boss, or the King.

I'd be rich and travelling the world if I was Pavarotti."

I wasn't about to let her off light.

"So you're a big Pavarotti fan then?"

"Nah, that's my hubby's music day and night.

Country's what I like sitting and knitting in the den."

I grabbed my songbook and rocked some Johnny Cash.

"Well, that was actually quite good, young man."

She walked away smiling. I had u-turned our clash.

Every market after, she was my biggest fan.

Artists don't have teflon souls. Feedback makes us cynics.

My epic draws to a close and with this moral ends.

We artists tend to make our friends our critics.

A real art is making your critics your friends.

(Wow. Some poems are yeast, they keep on growing. This is a true story that happened to me while busking)