Metered summer days quick-dry the fresh mirage
so just because, we'd ring the bell,
and opened every door no matter where we'd been!
Except for in my den
but, things all ended up well;
I'm the sincere poet.
Magic muse that abuses my every suffering
leave me be in silence, from my cell;
be honest, tell me should I "post"?
I'm really, just the host;
be too dark, and your poems may not sell;
I'm the tortured poet.
Chairs of stanzas quietly grinning
be seated, and we'll change to the channel,
it's all in how I read it!
I'm trying to conserve my spit;
I'm reading just as fast as a gazelle;
I am the puppet poet.
Treating paper and ink as oxygen,
shuffling sheets during the changing of the well.
I can't imagine what they'd think
did he have too much to drink?
he was truly great before he finally, fell;
I'm the retired poet.
Memories housed in dissarray, posthumously
be patient for I have a tale to tell,
deciphering will take time
don't say now, I should have, rhyme
your hunger, I cannot seem to quell;
I'm the dead poet.