Poets are the watchers in the tower
Scribbling, watching, waiting, hour after hour
They watch the depravity of man
They see their sinful plans
They watch the planet breath
They mourn as it bleeds
They watch the changing of the seasons
Connect the dots, make it all rhyme with reason
They watch the winged things fly
Shot down, plummet from the sky
They watch the good and the bad play out
From the paper the poets scream out and shout
They write about beauty and about what makes one cower
For they have endless combinations of words, endless power
They can drain you of hope, or make you flower
They are the watchers in the tower
