The Poetry Slave
The poetry slave, ah that talented slave
she who utters sweet nothings with skill
That intelligent fool, ah that talented knave
the illiterate never have their fill
For her the pen dances, the ballet of the page
a grace that comes without any attention or focus
And though she is locked behind bar, behind cage
she is far to enraptured to notice
Tis a musicless song, a tintinnabulation
she conducts without music, without measure, and score
She gains with her verses such sweet admiration
yet still they insist upon more
The poetry slave, ah that talented slave
Forced to write without her consent
That intelligent fool, ah that talented knave
under lock and key but content
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