Poets have been here in the park.
Look at the mess they made.
Pens are strewn all over the grass,
paper is crumpled in shade.
If you ask me it should be banned.
You can't go out these times,
without being stopped by some bard,
who'll make you hear new lines.
The other day I was on a bus,
one sat by the heater.
Couldn't even hear myself think
with that scribbling in metre.
They walk around with goatee beards,
all of them, even women.
Berets, black sweaters and glasses,
they keep 'em on while swimming.
Down by the canal discarded
verbs and phrases are found.
Stanzas with some jagged edges,
and used up odes abound.
Their brains are wired differently,
another logic I s'pose.
They're from the planet Neptune
and not that good with prose.
Some of my best friends are poets,
I'm not against them all.
Just prefer them to write it at home.
I'm not a bigot at all.
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