Oh God, it is wise to be humble
but poets may never believe,
in the poet world's rumble and tumble
he has millions of words up his sleeve.
And he twists them and shapes their behinds
then he kisses their curves and their skin,
as the poem then labours and grinds
he will dream of the day he will win.
There is no one who writes quite the same
nor will searchers discover a man
who will speak with each word in a frame