I hate poetry.

It's all a bunch of lies:

About flowers, love and stuff,

Things I despise.

I love poetry.

It is so easy to write,

Put your mind to it,

Take a pen and paper white.

How many words is Wordsworth worth?

What's so great about Crane, Coleridge and who's the other bloke…

They're just some nutters who scribbled after a good dose of coke

They say things,

We swallow them as our own-

Imagination aids us in the journey to meaning,

With our poets, we have grown.

They're lazy, preferring to write one word instead of a page:

Question them, their excuse is the form,

They say, 'I prefer poetry at this stage'.

I always say:

When you are happy, poems feel better

The flipside is obvious-

When your eyes get wetter.

Piles of rubbish with not much content,

If I've offended you-

That was my intent.

The freedom of speech is oh-so-priceless:

Spill your guts out;

Fill the page with all you feel-

Help them know what you are about.

Poetic license is something else I don't understand,

It's about having no responsibility, no rules-

Like the documented babbling of fools.

They write because it is easy,

We read because it is also-

Shopping lists, laundry bills, death threats to a friend:

These are all a part of the poet's 'work' a court will rationally defend.

A poem like this nowhere will you find,

The pinnacle of hypocrisy-

Thus, the best of its kind.