“A poet’s pestilence – dash off from him away!
He is sickness and, because of this,
you, crazy, bring on home the plague
but you don’t know the verse bacillus is.
He’s garrulous, a tawdry trouble-maker,
plays rattle in the gaper’s front,
the rogue who wanna burn with water
and now he’s spoiling for the fight!
Like a musketeer he has a wick.
He keeps his powder in a musket.
With naked pendant, tight-rope freak,
of the untrodden thicket he’s a midget.
All jumble from the farce he takes.
He’s loopy not having any clue
and if you’re curious in ahs an` ohs
then you should know that all is from a glue”.
The poet thinks all these words to himself.
God gave him gift not just for weight.
He’s bothering his soul to save
it from the wicked spirits hate.