ramblings and things
Poets
Poets are ten a penny these day,
Have their own signing on desk at the dole
Then leave unrecognised although they
Are the thermometer of any nation's soul.
They take the language.
Brush off the dust
And they tell their tales
Of love and lust
They talk of things
Not really nice,
Those street sleepers
Covered in lice,
The street walker
Not young any more,
Because of her habit
Forced to whore
The poet in his room
Muses and thinks
Using his lateral thoughts
To make poetical links
And they set down their words
Which mainly aren't read
The struggle being so exhausting
In the making of daily bread.
Those political pimps
Toeing their party line,
Telling the world
Every thing is fine
While submitting expenses,
Claiming every single penny,
So out of touch with
The despair of the many
I think they would get,
One huge surprise
If just for one day they saw
Things through a poet's eyes.
But, poets are ten a penny
And after their signing on day
Take the temperature of the world
And just slip quietly away.
Poets