The Poet’s Ballad
(or: 'Clickety-Clackity-Cling')

By: Richard Lynch

o o o o o

Nine out of ten sit around with a pen
Then all but nine come out and sing
The others there just sit down in their chair
Singing clickety-clackity-cling

To be a poet and not yet know it
Can make someone feel like a king
But it’s easy to rhyme, it takes no time
Sing clickety-clackity-cling

And then some confess their hope, what a mess
That they wish they had death to bring
Depressed they may be (or stupid, you see)
Sing clickety-clackity-cling

But then you hear more, the others implore
They write with a purpose on wing
Deep meaning to think, no where near the brink
Sing clickety-clackity-cling

The ones on the fence who do not make sense
Their poems they wrote on a swing
It’s fun to pander, and then meander
Sing clickety-clackity-cling

Some feelings write more, the verses obscure
Emotion laid out in a string
And if they don’t rhyme, I haven’t got time
Sing clickety-clackity-cling

And then these haikus, they’re widely known news
The authors can’t help sharing
But it takes no sweat to write these, I bet
Sing clickety-clackity-cling

A few, I admit, go into a fit
Their love they express on a fling
It’s their taste for sap, which ends with a slap
Sing clickety-clackity-cling

Any person can write without a plight
Pseudo-poems without a sting
But while they have failed, they are to be hailed
Sing clickety-clackity-cling

This little song I refuse to prolong
You’re on the verge of not caring
A poet you may be if you will stay
And sing clickety-clackity-cling

o o o o o