Top Shelf Experimental
Of this I am certain, a poet is no saint.
Fine words flow easily,
rubbish is articulate.
Malignant sugar highs,
silver tongues run wild.
That endless supply,
half finished lines,
just one more rhyme,
top shelf experimental.
Stanzas gain control,
mood manipulation.
Such a sly logophile,
faces are transfixed.
Power’s a schedule 1 drug,
a clean buzz for any artist.
All you need is that mic,
prepare for an addiction.
A poet is no saint, of this I am certain.
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