Poets do nothing

save to steal and to share,

they relocate riches

That are already there.

 

A Sunrise unspoiled 

from a blue virgin sky,

they’ll scrawl on the page

not knowing the why

 

They’re up in the morning

when the wild things awake

like Cat Stevens yawning

fuck, give us a break

 

They’ll paint secret colours

that you’ve never seen,

and tell you of places

that they’ve never been

 

But mostly they sit on their

arses and write,

subjecting poor wretches

to unfettered shite.