The Poet: Crawling and Scrawling

Why does he wake up each morning mourning,
With this pounding in his head as he lays in bed?
Does he know what they’ve said?
What they’re even now saying?
What the jack-asses are braying?
Maybe, but he just reaches for the bottle of pills
To throttle the raging in his mind and to blind
Himself to any reason in treason to sensibility;
Then he crawls from up under the dark covers
To scrawl on the four walls again
To begin another obnoxious poem!
And he acts like a turd ‘n eats like a damn bird
While spewing forth absurd lines that rhyme
But make no sense, yet he makes no pretense
Of intellectuality, his brain obviously a casualty
Of some inner war fought and lost, leaving him
Under the frost of insanity and fictitious vanity;
Ah! There he goes driving his words like a herd
Of cattle to be caged by pompous pen on paper!
Oh yes, he is the poet, after all,
But whence will come his fall
When his words will stand tall?
For now he is the crawling and scrawling poet,
Crawling and scrawling . . .

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