His emotional intelligence was quite high
Yet when he saw poetic injustice he‘d cry
There were those who thought he was shallow
Because his outlook on life was so mellow
In frustration one day he exclaimed
That his good poet fellows had been framed
In turn his outlook on life was strained
And his emotional intelligence was drained
Alas all good poets must cry
As they look up at the sky
Quietly wondering why
Their poems don’t fly
He lived in the mountains,
He lived alone with his thoughts.
Summer came in torrents of rain.
What came of his thoughts?
The wanderer asked, in mockful glee.
They ran afoul of hail and snow.