Poetry? It’s a hobby.
I run model trains.
Mr Shaw there breeds pigeons.
 
It’s not work. You dont sweat.
Nobody pays for it.
You could advertise soap.
 
Art, that’s opera; or repertory—
The Desert Song.
Nancy was in the chorus.
 
But to ask for twelve pounds a week—
married, aren’t you?—
you’ve got a nerve.
 
How could I look a bus conductor
in the face
if I paid you twelve pounds?
 
Who says it’s poetry, anyhow?
My ten year old
can do it and rhyme.
 
I get three thousand and expenses,
a car, vouchers,
but I’m an accountant.
 
They do what I tell them,
my company.
What do you do?
 
Nasty little words, nasty long words,
it’s unhealthy.
I want to wash when I meet a poet.
 
They’re Reds, addicts,
all delinquents.
What you write is rot.
 
Mr Hines says so, and he’s a schoolteacher,
he ought to know.
Go and find work.

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Vic
over 1 year

Hear! Hear! He's right y'know!

Y. J. Hall
Y. J. Hall
over 1 year

:-)

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