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
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’.
I like to pick up on vibes and magnify them. Bless me.