Don't drink in bed
and spill your wine
for the poet.

He will only leave you
for a better rhyme,
a more wholesome
desk to set his thoughts upon,
a chance to live beyond
four-walled extinction.

Don't let him satisfy
his need for a vice,
a wretched want
for wantonness;
to lay her down
in a bed of poverty.

The poet will capture
your fraught moments,
spinning a line
in smart formation,
and then reminding
you of pain ever since.

Don't sleep with the poet.
He will only wake you
in fear of cold and death.