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Best Famous Business Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Business poems. This is a select list of the best famous Business poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Business poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of business poems.

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Emanuel Xavier | |

WALKING WITH ANGELS

 for Lindsay

AIDS
knows the condom wrapped penetration 
of strangers and lovers, deep inside
only a tear away from risk

knows bare minimum t-cell level counts, 
replacing intoxicating cocktails
with jagged little pills

knows how to avoid a cure thanks to war
how to keep pharmaceutical corporations
and doctors in business

AIDS
knows the weight loss desired 
by supermodels,
knows the fearless meaning of a friends genuine kiss or hug
converts non-believers to religion 
and spirituality

comprehends loneliness
values the support of luminaries
smiles at the solidarity 
of single red ribbons

knows to dim the lights 
to elude detection
how to shame someone into hiding
from the rest of the world
to be grateful for the gift of clothing 
and shelter,
to remain silent, holding back the anger and frustration

AIDS
knows that time on earth 
is limited for all of us
that using lemons to make lemonade is better than drinking the Kool-Aid
but no matter how much you drink
you are always left dehydrated

knows working extensive hours
to pay hospital bills, 
the choice of survival
or taking pleasure in what is left of life

knows the solid white walls
you want to crash through 
and tear down
the thoughts of suicide 
in the back of your head

AIDS
knows the prosperous could be doing more with their wealth
and that everyone still thinks it is a deserving fate- for gays,
drug addicts, prostitutes, 
and the unfortunate children of such
born into a merciless world of posh handbags and designer jewelry

knows how to be used as another percentage to profit politicians
knows it doesn’t only affect humans 
but animals too, without bias
-providing fodder for art and something to be left behind

if there is a God
he has disregarded our prayers
left his angels behind to journey along with us
-none of us knowing exactly 
where we are headed


by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Judgement

"On the one hand you claim your true love, and on the other hand you judge your beloved, that is a business and selfishness, not a true love, true love does not require any kind of judgement in any way.
" Ehsan Sehgal


by Ehsan Sehgal | |

The Human

I thought I would pray to be a doctor
No, I changed my mind
I thought I would pray to be a lawyer
No, I changed my mind
I thought now I would pray to be an engineer
I felt confused and helpless
I thought again and again
About many professions, what I should be 
A business person or a politician? 
I couldn't decide any of that
All professions were easy to do
I thought what is the best to become
I thought years and years about
After that, I decided
To be a better human
A devoted human 
To spread the peace, justice and love
For everyone without any returns
                  --------------
Ehsan Sehgal?


More great poems below...

by Ehsan Sehgal | |

The Human

I thought I would pray to be a doctor
No, I changed my mind
I thought I would pray to be a lawyer
No, I changed my mind
I thought now I would pray to be an engineer
I felt confused and helpless
I thought again and again
About many professions, what I should be 
A business person or a politician? 
I couldn't decide any of that
All professions were easy to do
I thought what is the best to become
I thought years and years about
After that, I decided
To be a better human
A devoted human 
To spread the peace, justice and love
For everyone without any returns
              --------------
Ehsan Sehgal?


by Ben Jonson | |

On Don Surly


XXVIII.
 ? ON DON SURLY.
  
Don SURLY, to aspire the glorious name
Of a great man, and to be thought the same,
Makes serious use of all great trade he knows,
He speaks to men with a rhinocerote's nose,
Which he thinks great ; and so reads verses too :
And that is done, as he saw great men do.
He has tympanies of business in his face,
And can forget men's names, with a great grace.
He will both argue, and discourse in oaths,
Both which are great : and laugh at ill-made clothes ;
That's greater, yet : to cry his own up neat.
He doth at meals, alone, his pheasant eat,
Which is main greatness ; and at his still board
He drinks to no man : that's, too, like a lord.
He keeps another's wife, which is a spice
Of solemn greatness ; and he dares, at dice,
Blaspheme God greatly ; or some poor hind beat,
That breathes in his dog's way : and this is great.
Nay more, for greatness sake, he will be one
May hear my epigrams, but like of none.
SURLY, use other arts, these only can
Style thee a most great fool, but no great man.


[AJ Notes:
cry his own up neat, facilely praise his own clothes.
still board, quiet table.
]


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Conscientious Objector

 I shall die, but 
that is all that I shall do for Death.
I hear him leading his horse out of the stall; I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba, business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle while he clinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself: I will not give him a leg up.
Though he flick my shoulders with his whip, I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.
I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much, I will not map him the route to any man's door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living, that I should deliver men to Death? Brother, the password and the plans of our city are safe with me; never through me Shall you be overcome.


by Marianne Moore | |

Poetry

 I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all 
 this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise if it must, these things are important not because a high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are useful.
When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, the same thing may be said for all of us, that we do not admire what we cannot understand: the bat holding on upside down or in quest of something to eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base- ball fan, the statistician-- nor is it valid to discriminate against 'business documents and school-books'; all these phenomena are important.
One must make a distinction however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry, nor till the poets among us can be 'literalists of the imagination'--above insolence and triviality and can present for inspection, 'imaginary gardens with real toads in them', shall we have it.
In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is on the other hand genuine, you are interested in poetry.


by Julie Hill Alger | |

Marketplace Report January 23, 1991

The new war is a week old.
Bombs fall on Baghdad, missiles on Tel Aviv.
The voice on the radio says the armament dealers of Europe are hopeful that a longer war will be good for business.
They say, as fighting continues there will be wear and tear on matériel.
Spare parts must be manufactured, as well as replacements for equipment blown apart, shattered, set afire.
Prudently, the merchants consult their spreadsheets.
They guard against euphoria and prepare for a possible downside to this bonanza: the Allies are shooting at their best customer, Saddam Hussein.
If he loses their market will be depressed.
There is also a danger of restrictions on sales to angry dictators.
Thus, the longterm effects of the war may not all be positive.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE YELPERS.

 OUR rides in all directions bend,

For business or for pleasure,
Yet yelpings on our steps attend,

And barkings without measure.
The dog that in our stable dwells, After our heels is striding, And all the while his noisy yells But show that we are riding.
1815.
*


by Sir Walter Raleigh | |

Sestina Otiosa

 Our great work, the Otia Merseiana, 
Edited by learned Mister Sampson, 
And supported by Professor Woodward, 
Is financed by numerous Bogus Meetings
Hastily convened by Kuno Meyer 
To impose upon the Man of Business.
All in vain! The accomplished Man of Business Disapproves of Otia Merseiana, Turns his back on Doctor Kuno Meyer; Cannot be enticed by Mister Sampson, To be present at the Bogus Meetings, Though attended by Professor Woodward.
Little cares the staid Professor Woodward: He, being something of a man of business, Knows that not a hundred Bogus Meetings To discuss the Otia Merseiana Can involve himself and Mister Sampson In the debts of Doctor Kuno Meyer.
So the poor deluded Kuno Meyer, Unenlightened by Professor Woodward -- Whom, upon the word of Mister Sampson, He believes to be a man of business Fit to run the Otia Merseiana -- Keeps on calling endless Bogus Meetings.
Every week has now its Bogus Meetings, Punctually convened by Kuno Meyer In the name of Otia Merseiana: Every other week Professor Woodward Takes his place, and, as a man of business, Audits the accounts with Mister Sampson.
He and impecunious Mister Sampson Are the mainstay of the Bogus Meetings; But the alienated Man of Business Cannot be allured by Kuno Meyer To attend and meet Professor Woodward, Glory of the Otia Merseiana.
Kuno Meyer! Great Professor Woodward! Bogus Meetings damn, for men of business, Mister Sampson's Otia Merseiana.


by Henry David Thoreau | |

The Summer Rain

 My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read, 
'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large 
Down in the meadow, where is richer feed, 
And will not mind to hit their proper targe.
Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too, Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again, What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true, Nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men.
Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough, What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town, If juster battles are enacted now Between the ants upon this hummock's crown? Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn, If red or black the gods will favor most, Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn, Struggling to heave some rock against the host.
Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour, For now I've business with this drop of dew, And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower-- I'll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.
This bed of herd's grass and wild oats was spread Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use.
A clover tuft is pillow for my head, And violets quite overtop my shoes.
And now the cordial clouds have shut all in, And gently swells the wind to say all's well; The scattered drops are falling fast and thin, Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.
I am well drenched upon my bed of oats; But see that globe come rolling down its stem, Now like a lonely planet there it floats, And now it sinks into my garment's hem.
Drip drip the trees for all the country round, And richness rare distills from every bough; The wind alone it is makes every sound, Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.
For shame the sun will never show himself, Who could not with his beams e'er melt me so; My dripping locks--they would become an elf, Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.


by James A Emanuel | |

False Notions Fears And Other Things Of Wood

 Repeatedly, that sturdy stump in me
bears up like stone,
beneath some ritual I see:
the blinding axe
swings up, holds,
that moment of its weightlessness
inscrutable
till I confirm the arm is mine;
I will it, grip,
feel moist the swelling handle,
the shudder rude,
the difference fallen.
Toward that chopping block I carry in me woodthings— infectious undergrowth pretending upwards through each stem and branch of me— all so certain of themselves they practice, like pains, the craft of being.
They try to wrench away before we reach that stump, my woodthings and I, they weakening in its brightness, in my luminous saying "I must go, must go to the chopping block.
" They know the brutal business of my thinking; I know they have no charity nor memory to return the way they came— came not from wilderness, nor forest, nor living trees.
Their craft and strength I test— and mine— at the chopping block.


by Edgar Albert Guest | |

A Toast to the Men

 Here's to the men! Since Adam's time 
They've always been the same;
Whenever anything goes wrong,
The woman is to blame.
From early morn to late at night, The men fault-finders are; They blame us if they oversleep, Or if they miss a car.
They blame us if, beneath the bed, Their collar buttons roll; They blame us if the fire is out Or if there is no coal.
They blame us if they cut themselves While shaving, and they swear That we're to blame if they decide To go upon a tear.
Here's to the men, the perfect men! Who never are at fault; They blame us if they chance to get The pepper for the salt.
They blame us if their business fails, Or back a losing horse; And when it rains on holidays The fault is ours, of course.
They blame us when they fall in love, And when they married get; Likewise they blame us when they're sick, And when they fall in debt.
For everything that crisscross goes They say we are to blame; But, after all, here's to the men, We love them just the same!


by Marilyn L Taylor | |

Reverie with Fries

 Straight-spined girl—yes, you of the glinting earrings,
amber skin and sinuous hair: what happened?
you’ve no business lunching with sticky children
here at McDonald’s.
Are they yours? How old were you when you had them? You are far too dazzling to be their mother, though I hear them spluttering Mommy Mommy over the Muzak.
Do you plan to squander your precious twenties wiping ketchup dripping from little fingers, drowning your ennui in a Dr.
Pepper from the dispenser? Were I you for one schizophrenic moment, I’d display my pulchritude with a graceful yet dismissive wave to the gathered burghers feeding their faces— find myself a job as a super-model, get me to those Peloponnesian beaches where I’d preen all day with a jug of ouzo in my bikini.
Would I miss the gummy suburban vinyl, hanker for the Happiest Meal on Main Street? —Wouldn’t one spectacular shrug suffice for begging the question?


by Matthew Prior | |

For my own Monument

 AS doctors give physic by way of prevention, 
 Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care; 
For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention 
 May haply be never fulfill'd by his heir.
Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid; That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye; Yet credit but lightly what more may be said, For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.
Yet counting as far as to fifty his years, His virtues and vices were as other men's are; High hopes he conceived, and he smother'd great fears, In a life parti-colour'd, half pleasure, half care.
Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree; In public employments industrious and grave, And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he! Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust; And whirl'd in the round as the wheel turn'd about, He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.
This verse, little polish'd, tho' mighty sincere, Sets neither his titles nor merit to view; It says that his relics collected lie here, And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.
Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, So Mat may be kill'd, and his bones never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, So Mat may yet chance to be hang'd or be drown'd.
If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air, To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same; And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear, He cares not--yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.


by Wang Wei | |

Fields and Gardens by the River Qi

 I dwell apart by the River Qi,
Where the Eastern wilds stretch far without hills.
The sun darkens beyond the mulberry trees; The river glistens through the villages.
Shepherd boys depart, gazing back to their hamlets; Hunting dogs return following their men.
When a man's at peace, what business does he have? I shut fast my rustic door throughout the day.


by Robert William Service | |

A Song Of Winter Weather

 It isn't the foe that we fear;
 It isn't the bullets that whine;
It isn't the business career
 Of a shell, or the bust of a mine;
It isn't the snipers who seek
 To nip our young hopes in the bud:
No, it isn't the guns,
And it isn't the Huns --
 It's the MUD,
 MUD,
 MUD.
It isn't the melee we mind.
That often is rather good fun.
It isn't the shrapnel we find Obtrusive when rained by the ton; It isn't the bounce of the bombs That gives us a positive pain: It's the strafing we get When the weather is wet -- It's the RAIN, RAIN, RAIN.
It isn't because we lack grit We shrink from the horrors of war.
We don't mind the battle a bit; In fact that is what we are for; It isn't the rum-jars and things Make us wish we were back in the fold: It's the fingers that freeze In the boreal breeze -- It's the COLD, COLD, COLD.
Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold, The cold, the mud, and the rain; With weather at zero it's hard for a hero From language that's rude to refrain.
With porridgy muck to the knees, With sky that's a-pouring a flood, Sure the worst of our foes Are the pains and the woes Of the RAIN, THE COLD, AND THE MUD.


by Robert William Service | |

My Suicide

 I've often wondered why
Old chaps who choose to die
In evil passes,
Before themselves they slay,
Invariably they
Take off their glasses?

As I strolled by the Castle cliff
An oldish chap I set my eyes on,
Who stood so singularly stiff
And stark against the blue horizon;
A poet fashioning a sonnet,
I thought - how rapt he labours on it!

And then I blinked and stood astare,
And questioned at my sight condition,
For I was seeing empty air -
He must have been an apparition.
Amazed I gazed .
.
.
no one was there: My sanity roused my suspicion.
I strode to where I saw him stand So solitary in the sun - Nothing! just empty sew and land, no smallest sign of anyone.
While down below I heard the roar Of waves, five hundred feet or more.
I had been drinking, I confess; There was confusion in my brain, And I was feeling more or less The fumes of overnight champagne.
So standing on that dizzy shelf: "You saw no one," I told myself.
"No need to call the local law, For after all its not your business.
You just imagined what you saw .
.
.
" Then I was seized with sudden dizziness: For at my feet, beyond denying, A pair of spectacles were lying.
And so I simply let them lie, And sped from that accursed spot.
No lover of the police am I, And sooner would be drunk than not.
"I'll scram," said I, "and leave the locals To find and trace them dam bi-focals.
"


by Robert William Service | |

Self-Made Man

 A hundred people I employed,
But when they struck for higher pay,
I was so damnably annoyed
I told them they could stay away.
I simply shut my business down; I closed my doors and locked them out, And now you'll find all round the town A lot of idle men about.
Of course I know it is my loss, And I their point of view can see, But I must show them I'm the boss, And any raise must come from ME.
But when they claim it as a right, And send their Union leaders round, Why then, by God, I'm out to fight, Or burn my workshop to the ground.
I've risen from the ranks myself; By brawn and brain I've made my way.
Had I bet, beered and blown my pelf, I would have been as poor as they.
Had I wed young to thrift's unheed, I might have been a toiler now, With rent to pay and kids to feed, And bloody sweat upon my brow.
Ah there's the point! "I might have been.
" I might have been as peeved as they, And know what misery can mean, And ask like them a raise of pay.
I see myself.
.
.
.
"The telephone!" .
.
.
Had I not been so bloody wise - (A poor old rich man all alone) .
.
.
"Hullo! Strike's off.
I grant the rise.
"


by Robert William Service | |

Comfort

 Say! You've struck a heap of trouble --
 Bust in business, lost your wife;
No one cares a cent about you,
 You don't care a cent for life;
Hard luck has of hope bereft you,
 Health is failing, wish you'd die --
Why, you've still the sunshine left you
 And the big, blue sky.
Sky so blue it makes you wonder If it's heaven shining through; Earth so smiling 'way out yonder, Sun so bright it dazzles you; Birds a-singing, flowers a-flinging All their fragrance on the breeze; Dancing shadows, green, still meadows -- Don't you mope, you've still got these.
These, and none can take them from you; These, and none can weigh their worth.
What! you're tired and broke and beaten? -- Why, you're rich -- you've got the earth! Yes, if you're a tramp in tatters, While the blue sky bends above You've got nearly all that matters -- You've got God, and God is love.


by Robert William Service | |

The Front Tooth

 A-sittin' in the Bull and Pump
With double gins to keep us cheery
Says she to me, says Polly Crump"
"What makes ye look so sweet.
me dearie? As if ye'd gotten back yer youth .
.
.
.
" Says I: "It's just me new front tooth.
" Says Polly Crump: "A gummy grin Don't help to make one's business active; We gels wot gains our bread by sin Have got to make ourselves attractive.
I hope yer dentist was no rook?" Says I: "A quid is what he took.
" Says Polly Crump: "The shoes you wear Are down at heel and need new soleing; Why doncher buy a better pair? The rain goes in and out the holeing.
They're squelchin' as ye walk yer beat.
.
.
.
" Says I: "blokes don't look at me feet.
" Says Polly Crump: "You cough all day; It just don't do in our profession; A girl's got to be pert and gay To give a guy a good impression; For if ye cough he's shy of you.
.
.
.
" Says I: "An' wots a gel to do?" Says Polly Crump: "I'm pink an' fat, But you are bones an' pale as plaster; At this dam' rate you're goin' at You'll never live to be a laster.
You'll have the daisy roots for door.
.
.
.
" Says I: "It's 'ell to be a 'ore.
"But I don't care now I can smile, Smile, smile and not that gap-toothed grinning; I'm wet and cold, but it's worth while To once again look fairly winning.
And send ten bob or so to Mother.
.
.
.
" Said Polly Crump: "Gwad! Have another?"


by Robert William Service | |

Vain Venture

 To have a business of my own
 With toil and tears,
I wore my fingers to the bone
 For weary years.
With stoic heart, for sordid gold In patient pain My life and liberty I sold For others gain.
I scrimped and scraped, as cent by cent My savings grew; I found a faded shop for rent, Made it like new.
Above the door the paint was dry Where glowed my name: I waited there for folks to buy-- But no one came.
Now I am back where I began: Myself I sell.
I grovel to a greedy man, And life is hell.
An empty shop of bankrupt shame I pass before, Seeing my bitter, bleary name Above the door.


by Jane Taylor | |

The Spider

 "Oh, look at that great ugly spider!" said Ann; 
And screaming, she brush'd it away with her fan; 
"'Tis a frightful black creature as ever can be, 
I wish that it would not come crawling on me.
" "Indeed," said her mother, "I'll venture to say, The poor thing will try to keep out of your way; For after the fright, and the fall, and the pain, It has much more occasion than you to complain.
"But why should you dread the poor insect, my dear? If it hurt you, there'd be some excuse for your fear; But its little black legs, as it hurried away, Did but tickle your arm, as they went, I dare say.
"For them to fear us we must grant to be just, Who in less than a moment can tread them to dust; But certainly we have no cause for alarm; For, were they to try, they could do us no harm.
"Now look! it has got to its home; do you see What a delicate web it has spun in the tree? Why here, my dear Ann, is a lesson for you: Come learn from this spider what patience can do! "And when at your business you're tempted to play, Recollect what you see in this insect to-day, Or else, to your shame, it may seem to be true, That a poor little spider is wiser than you.
"


by Barry Tebb | |

LEEDS 2002

 What ghosts haunt

These streets of perpetual night?

Riverbanks fractured with splinters of glass condominiums

For nouveam riche merchant bankers

Black-tied bouncers man clubland glitz casinos

Novotel, Valley Park Motel, the Hilton:

Hot tubs, saunas, swim spas, en suite 

Satellite TV, conference rooms, disco dinners.
I knew Len, the tubby taxi man With his retirement dreams of visiting The world’s great galleries: ‘Titian, Leonardo, Goya, I’ve lived all my life in the house I was born in All my life I’ve saved for this trip’ The same house he was done to death in Tortured by three fourteen year olds, Made headlines for one night, another Murder to add to Beeston’s five this year.
Yorkshire Forward advertises nation-wide The north’s attractions for business expansion Nothing fits together any more Addicts in doorways trying to score The new Porsches and the new poor Air-conditioned thirty-foot limos, fibre-optic lit, Uniformed chauffeurs fully trained in close protection And anti-hijack techniques, simply the best – See for yourself in mirrored ceilings.
See for yourself the screaming youth Soaring psychotic one Sunday afternoon Staggering round the new coach station "I’ll beat him to death the day I see him next" Fifty yards away Millgarth police station’s Fifty foot banner proclaims ‘Let’s fight crime together’ I am no poet for this age I cannot drain nostalgia from my blood


by Barry Tebb | |

THE SINGING SCHOOL

 The Poetry School, The Poetry Book Society, The Poetry Business:

So much poetry about you’d think I’d want to shout, “Hurray, hurray,

Every day’s Poetry Day!” but I don’t and you don’t either-

You know its flim-flam on the ether, grants for Jack-the-lads

Of both sexes, poets who’ve never been seen in a little magazine

Then gone on to win the Oopla Prize and made baroque architecture

The subject of an O.
U.
lecture.
Seventy five pounds for a seminar on sensitivity in verse; A hundred and fifty for an infinitely worse whole weekend of ‘Steps towards a personal fiction in post-modern diction’; And the inevitable course anthology, eight pounds for eleven Nameless poets Pascale Petit and Mimi Kahlvati carefully selected From, well honestly! Who cares? God only knows how banal they’re Bound to be.
Budding Roddy Lumsdens, (Has anyone read a Roddy Lumsden Poem?) “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” his first collection short-listed here and there - The sheer hype’s enough to put me off for life.
I still write at bus-stops and avoid competitions like the plague.
I’m not lucky that way, I’ve still to win a single literary prize.
Is there one for every day of the year? And as for James Kirkup, My mentor of forty-odd years, his name evokes blank stares; but Look him up in ‘Who’s Who’, countless OUP collections, the best- ever Version of Val?ry’s ‘Cimeti?re Marin’, translations from eleven tongues Including Vietnamese.
Is there nothing Jamie can do to please? I help one poet to write and one to stay alive; Please God help poor poets thrive.