It is not my job to be a poet,

not my job to spew hopeless clauses

Not my job to weave callous causes

Not my job to print insipid logic

Not my job to parse sight through the darkness.

Not my job to tell souls to behave

Not my job to give credence to knaves

Not my job to sell this gold to the state

Not my job to give words away.

No, it's yours - -

Yours to obey, yours to disdain

Yours to compare, yours to reapir

Yours to create, yours left to fate

Years of the past are not of one date

--

Not my job, not to wish or to pray

Not to shine one's soul with spittle
And lacquer its grain

Not my job to place words, no, merely to give
Not my place to give words that do not serve fit

You all know better, you all say so
And for note, with a sad, careful bow will I go.