Prent Fin

So the song tale goes
Once close to its close.

We know we’re well-mixed,
And we don’t like it.

We’re a bit of tune
And a bit of tale,

A bit sung, bit told,
A few rhymes, some prose.

What’s hard to make work
Sticks well in the mind;

What’s swift to spill out
Fades in a short time.

Then, when the mind rots,
There’s a plot scrap left

With no names to it
And a song we were

Sung when we were young.
The last words are verse.