Poets are made of bone , flesh and skin .
They swim in their folly
thinking in the end they will win .
They are having the best waste of time they've ever had
Locked inside their rooms
that have no walls
Saying nothing , nothing
Nothing at all


Prime time never arrives
Their latest masterpiece
Is so , so , so contrived
Best hope is they will die
long before they fall
After all . . .
It's nothing , nothing
Nothing at all

It was the best waste of time
they ever had