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.