THE REAL POET
He penned a poem in the eye he did not miss a letter or a line he made it look so easy he told me he does it for the money just for the meat he likes to eat and then he made me sick when he told me he can do it anywhere at anytime here is what he said to me eye can take a rhyme and rip it off and make the poem to get the stuff the stuff that life is made up of the money that eye need to drink the alcoholic beverages that eye am so fond of he trades his poetry for stuff he sells his soul in every page to drink he learns no more but lives he stinks he makes me want to cry weep moan and mend my evil ways because my poetry is free. The real poet is not me.
