Whose words these are I think I know.
He's on another website, though;
He will not see me shopping here
To snitch his words for me to show.
My readership must think it queer;
I post ten thousand poems a year.
Between the copies, pastes and likes
I've barely time to chug a beer.
They give their addled heads a shake
And ask if there is some mistake.
The others call me out, a creep.
Who cares? They're just a bunch of flakes.
Their poems are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have villanelles to sneak,
And lines to own before I sleep,
And lines to own before I sleep.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
Whose words these are I think I know.
He's on another website, though;
He will not see me shopping here
To snitch his words for me to show.
My readership must think it queer;
I post ten thousand poems a year.
Between the copies, pastes and likes
I've barely time to chug a beer.
They give their addled heads a shake
And ask if there is some mistake.
The others call me out, a creep.
Who cares? They're just a bunch of flakes.
Their poems are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have villanelles to sneak,
And lines to own before I sleep,
And lines to own before I sleep.
NaPoWriMo day 7. Not by prompt, but something I've wanted to write for a long, long time.
If you really need to steal the work of others to call yourself a poet, it's one of the most pathetic admissions any human being could make. Stop it.
With apologies to Robert Frost, of course.
Request permission to use this poem