As poetry itself can’t earn me fl cash
Ill live on sausage meat and buttery mash
I’ll have to take cocaine to get some words
A sentence here and there, a paper charred
What would happen if the poets went on strike
And got some other work from their old bikes
Then there’d be a flatness to our talk
. No more would our words dance, they’d have to walk.
What kind of work could an old poet obtain ?
Could I be a scarecrow in the rain?
Could I be a nurse and help the sick
I could study clocks,how do they tick?
Yet all I have that is unique to me
Is my own words that flow,the silver sea
And in the sea of words we float with joy
Do not drown but give your words employ
Even were it crime to play with words
The sound of a new rhyme coulf still occur.
What are the words that form our dialogue
Merry bright and free thermse are my drug
How my heart sings 