.
There was a time
when a poet was the bane,
a thorn in the side of fathers,
seeking to protect their starry eyed daughters,
to keep their virtue intact and pure,
from the menace of romantic verse,
and the lure of a handsome wordsmith.

There was a time
women would queue to be his muse,
pray to be the next broken hearted tragedy,
in rhymes penned by his stroking fingers,
the fulcrum of an adventure in love,
to fulfil their private fantasies of destiny,
being the plaything of word woven desire.

There was a time
ladies in lace and fur and of status
raided accounts of rich and flaccid husbands,
to bestow favour and gifts,
upon the man who turned them on,
with *** for their lust starved bodies
and soft words for sensitive emotional need.

There was a time
and now its has long gone,
the poet barely catches a beautiful muse,
hardly ever breaks a heart,
nor seduces a benefactors second glance,
leading her to book and bed,
as the world offers her distractions new.



© Pagan Paul (25/04/18)