To Poetry Soup

To poetry soup I shall stick Until I start walking with a stoop, To and fro patrolling with walking stick. On my fingers the soup Forever my fingers I lick: My fidelity to the group Until my still bragging shoulders droop. What I see in poetry soup Are buxom hens in a coop You can’t but many yearn to pick And not a single one aside kick. On her Good Poetry you snoop, Soon, round your neck a loop