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