by Rex B. Valentine

I tried to be my elevator, raise me up in life.
So I would get to the upper floor with very little strife.
I looked the buttons o’er with care to assure me no mistake,
But life was difficult, not fair, and what floor should I take?
I found it hard to lift myself, my bootstraps seemed so weak.
And when I tried to gain more wealth it played me hide and seek.
My elevator was not smooth, it didn’t do my bidding.
And when I told it when to move it said you must be kidding.
In time reality set in, my plan was surely wrong.
I worked it over twice again to sing a different song.
I vowed I’d look at other souls who might just need a lift;
and transfer my forsaken goals to others as a gift.
Then I could help them reach their floor above this world’s mess
to share with them that open door where efforts spawn success,
and I will know the happiness that comes when others win.
Especially when they express their gladness with a grin.
I’ll be their elevator boy, or climb with them the stair.
Then I will know firsthand the joy of helping them “get there.”

Placeholder Picture