Now, who the **** would ever be a poet?
What leaves a man or woman so dissolute
To write in verse and then to freely show it
Rather than be embarrassed as they ought

Perhaps their parents didn’t raise them right
Their fathers didn’t beat them as they should
There’s plenty pleasant ways to waste a life
But poetry does no one any good

It doesn’t heal the sick, nor raise a smile
And poems don’t land people on the moon
Wherever men are doing work worthwhile
There’s rarely ever poets in the room

Most any fool who owns a pen and a paper could
Write verse, but there’s no pride so seek no praise
For most folks know that doesn’t mean you should
But poets, they can’t help but act depraved