I find the least talented poets
Sit with poised pen to critigue badly
Our separate likes I am afraid
Are not always the same sadly
She that writes on page love of country
Or those that indeed write of lost love
Those that write directly to the man above
Each poet is a brother or sister with a vanity
To critigue is good to Judge insanity
For do we look at our own poetry with unbaised eye
Having said this you can judge my work better than I
