Poets are the watchers in the tower Scribbling, watching, waiting, hour after hour
They watch the depravity of man They see their sinful plans They watch the plant breath They mourn as it bleeds They watch the changing of the seasons Connect the dots, make it all rhyme with reason They watch the winged things fly Shot down, plummet from the sky They watch the good and the bad play out From the paper the poets scream out and shout
They write about beauty and about what makes one cower For the have endless combinations of words, endless power They can drain you of hope, or make you flower They are the watchers in the tower