Poems are often cussed things,

So they do not sell.

What market affords a bankruptcy

With poems that truths may tell.

 

And, poets are an afflicted lot

That carry contagion

Of laser-sharp impertinence

To those that hug the nation.

 

Not for nothing did a Plato too

Leave them out of Republic;

What publisher then may undertake  

A Plato to contradict.

 

Besides, the Pharoas of the day

Propagate scripture;

And poems quiz the gods the most

Who prop a dictator.

 

 

So, what bookmaker may his fingers burn,

And his pockets turn inside out

By venturing a book of  poems

That do not the time’s praises shout.

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