JP's Gedichtband

The Tragedy of Jacob the Unknown

Hier ist das zweite Gedicht auf Englisch, eine Zusatzleistung aus der zwölften Klasse. Vielleicht kann man ja sogar eine gewisse Steigerung erkennen.

The Tragedy of Jacob the Unknown

There once was a painter, Jacob was his name

He was born with umbilical cord and brush

Went on to paint, with passion filling each frame

Took time like a tree, never considered to rush

Had a big memory, which could rival libraries

His looks were anything but short, time flew by

The drawings kept it real, no artistic liberties

Managed to capture exactly what meets the eye

The brush painted a road, art school became his goal

Sucking up all of his focus, other options at the edge

Walking a tightrope without net over a very deep hole

Missing many options now would be a misery to replace

What then followed was a hail of arrows of advice

Parents, teachers, friends – everybody preferred a bridge

To Jacob it was doubt, they just wanted to be nice

So he shut them off, thinking that would make him rich

Afterwards art school began, being in the minority ended

In a class of ambitious painters, working hard never ended

Many great lectures, the best of school became routine

Many fun projects, good grades rewarded Jacob the Keen

While he wasn't a billionaire, selling drawings payed the bills

By that, being born were bombastically boosting business skills

The good sales carved his envisioned plans into stone

Selling his art should become his financial back bone!

The sand castle of a shop was quickly built

A website uploaded, Jacob was thrilled!

He hadn't been lazy and drawn in advance

Had the supply of a museum on his hands

But then a wave of disinterest formed

His pictures made many people bored

The destructive wave of his work being slept

On left behind less motivation and a rising debt

But the little donkey kept marching on

A side income might strengthen his legs

Cleaning toilets brought him additional rags

But no riches, the low sales kept going on

Then a candle got too big, not fully covered

By insurance, what followed was a relapse

Into even bigger debt, made the legs collapse

This was the last time the shop was mothered

Sold was the shop, starting were longer shifts

All these wasted years, truly a giant miss!

Creating pictures became cleaning up piss

For a current of money without financial rifts

The pictures, burnt in frustration, went to waste

The one in a million became just like the millions

What took place was a tragedy without a villain

Can you blame people for their personal taste?