The Poet And His Morbidly Obese Soul Poem by Mohamed Eita

O pity the poet, he is wearied and tired
Alas, you would be wearied and tired too
If you had to carry around a soul that in
Waistline and age had outgrown you

O pity the poet, for he's fallen ill
So heavy was his soul it broke his will
His will is broken yet still he stands
And will stand still until he's well

O pity the poet, and mourn his loss
To the rubbles of troubles that keep him cross
At the crossing a coin-tossing shall tell him whither
He should part with his soul and get across

O pity the petty poet no more
For no one can pity a poet so guile
Better than he can do it; what's more
He'll do it in style.