Poets have agendas like a cow has got some teats.
Poetry is all about their struggles and retreats.
They write of death and sex and love and then again of sex;
Someone ought to tell them that they need to wash their necks.
They teach at universities and live upon fat grants
That let them write epiphanies about the wingless ants.
Though shallow as a cookie sheet, they keep a grim profile
To make you think they are the victims of much secret guile.
Furious and passionate, disdaining commonplaces,
They travel far and so forget their kids could use some braces.
If you like to make things rhyme, and do not raise your fist,
You are not a poet . . . just a tawdry humorist.
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