Poet

“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.