Oh Wondrous Poetry, Or Brother Ass

II don't know that poetry has any obligation but to be poetry. Ah! There is the rub; for each of us has our own opinion, therefore, dominion of the heart. An organ feeding every other part, necessary for survival. Perhaps, if we penned all with newly oxygenated blood? (Forsaking our programming) Still, even such ink would eventually age, dry, flake away – So, perhaps, we should write just for the breath-full day, allowing all other gas to pass. Poetry, though highly exalted we may wish, is general accomplished with some contribution by the Ass.