Poets/ his and hers...
He's not a poet,
but he is...
They're not true
So we're incompetents
about to fool around
Meaning, we don't care
if it's random or just
She's not a poet,
but she is,
But like who reads
Lord Byron, Nowadays?
Have we always been
in this situation?
Green seaweed of the mind,
not enough salt,
mounds of sex,
half a banana
with the skin partly drawn,
Yes it's a poet alright!
and they want it now...
For we all know how
to take it like that,
Bent over, without little care
as to what anybody truly thinks,
So called dangerous poets - huh!
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