Who will lead the revolution?
I think the poets will.
Who else can take mere words and turn them into the thoughts that toss great men about in sleep.
Who can make the people rise, and bring the masses to the streets?  
Where the gunshot is the only way to stop such a typhoon like sympathy.

I've heard men like this and read about their deeds.  
I've seen them martyred on their crosses with little save their dignity.
With only the stain of their blood to remind us of what they gave.
I listen, and am mortified at the twisted regurgitation of their poetry.
Now a servant  of the men it was meant to grab hold of and change; put to use towards their own perversity.

They tell me that poetry is dead, a thing of young girls and old men.
I'll let them think that as I read my lines in the dark and dreary dens.
I'll perfect it by the snaps and claps of other like minded kin.
Waiting for a time that's right for me!
For one day I will bring my lines into the light and grab the souls of mortal man; while robing the wicked of their sleep!