TO A (soon to be) HUNG POET

Plowman of his own field of

Gray; recondite words his

Sword for the prey. His lustful

pen makes a certain Venus stray.

With her deliquesced bosom, I fear

He might play.

O poet! In ink your weapon

Dip you may, in vengeance

I dip mine. Bleed her purple,

Or a foul word say; I'll drag

A poet like ye, for the

Epitaph for ye own shrine.

O poet! The tocsin of ye death,

Is loudly rung. Your doll is ma

Lady, beware poet, beware.

Scratch her an inch, the

Maple on ye flagitious field

Will bear ye body; neatly hung.

On Intellectuals

The poetess and her crippled husband

named Wit, mocked at workers

for they wore helmets, hands stiff,

no fancy words to their mouth did fit.

Lover of her own gray,

flummoxed by her own gray;

to aplomb did she yield. Facetious

her life of absconding reality.

Crowned men's crowned words,

panegyric her shield.

Fancies and fantasies; her inked down

thoughts. To a door knob she wrote, while the

worker curved her the door. Cursed be the clerisy,

the public profligates and their obscure poems.

They mock us in blue, while our crimson blood mourns.

Menagerie of alienated tots, like she

and a few more; their effete pens

puking stoic words, dried up passion;

just for another western alien's coffee mug.

Though you and me; wont know his identity,

just another crab of distant shore.

Huh! I say, let her write, for she

can. And let us draw our earthly visions, for

thats what we commoners are for. Our

poems rhyme, our songs sing, our bloods red

and never blue. Its not common man's odyssey;

but a low man's lyric.