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.