There’s nothing so cliquey as poets, The Belgians of the written word You really can’t trust them an inch, though. Give ‘em nouns and they’ll all take a verb!
‘Oh lovely!’ and ‘So finely crafted.’ They say to their bestest of pals. To others they simply drip acid Or cock a wee snook at the words.
Has a ‘meat and two veg’ prosey writer Ever sneered or complained to a mate? No, they are the ‘Yorkshire’ contingent They’re tough and they’re stolid and straight.
So if I were to conjure a smidgeon Of quite irrepressible thoughts: Perhaps it’s an ‘honesty’ of prosies And a bleedin ‘conspiracy’ of poets?
A. Prose Writer
Prose Writers
Have you ever thought how a prose writer Can hardly remember his name While plodding along with his verbiage Much of it looking the same?
The words thud like mud on the pages They’re solid and workmanlike, yes But where’s all the thunder and lightning, The art and the beauty and yes …
Where is the spirit that’s striving To uplift the soul and the wit? Where is the bright, shining wisdom? – A bit of description. That’s it!
If I were to give my opinion (I’m happy to warm to the theme), Perhaps a ‘morass’ of prose writers And poets? – Why they’re a ‘supreme’.
A. Poet
I like to pick up on vibes and magnify them. Bless me.
