The Ventriloquist Poem

More about The Ventriloquist Poem

Once a ventriloquist, with skills quite unique,
Whose voice never wavered, nor did it ever leak,
He'd make puppets come alive, with his art so refined,
Their voices distinct, yet all in his mind.
With a flick of his wrist, and a twitch of his hand,
He'd bring forth a voice, from a puppet so bland,
Each one with a tale, to tell on the stage,
Their words so precise, like words from a sage.
The ventriloquist's puppet, a masterful guise,
With their wooden features, and button-like eyes,
They'd dance and they'd sing, they'd joke and they'd jest,
And the audience would laugh, and clap with such zest.
But the ventriloquist knew, that his skills were his own,
That the puppets were just, the seeds he had sown,
For without his talent, and his skill with his voice,
The puppets were nothing, but toys without poise.
So let us give thanks, to the ventriloquist's art,
To his talent and skill, that sets him apart,
For without him, the puppets would simply be still,
And we'd be left with silence, an eerie chill.