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.