Perchance to Dream
Aye, there’s the rub, says me, you see,
‘cos what I write is poetry,
not truisms and tricky bits
for folks to quote with borrowed wits
so they might feel their stature’s grown
without an effort of their own.
A poet lives his life alone,
a penitent who must atone
for sins of thought and social gaffes
of telling riffs they’re really raffs,
defiling thrones, defacing coins
and planting feet in lofty groins.
No flowered verse on greeting card
will pass this pen; no arse of lard
shall rule me. Not the poppest vox
will talk me into such a box;
aye, there’s the rub, ‘tis poetry
that’s destined me to poverty.