Poems are often cussed things,
So they do not sell.
What market affords a bankruptcy
With poems that truths may tell.
And, poets are an afflicted lot
That carry contagion
Of laser-sharp impertinence
To those that hug the nation.
Not for nothing did a Plato too
Leave them out of Republic;
What publisher then may undertake
A Plato to contradict.
Besides, the Pharoas of the day
Propagate scripture;
And poems quiz the gods the most
Who prop a dictator.
So, what bookmaker may his fingers burn,
And his pockets turn inside out
By venturing a book of poems
That do not the time’s praises shout.
ZNetwork is funded solely through the generosity of its readers.
Donate