PAY THE POETS

Pay the Poets

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Call not a piece 'Just'
and worth less not it's worth
For it's the contest of words
weaved with brain and blood.

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Pay his heart with applause
Send praise' convoy in accord
For poetry wasn't a child's play
from Shakespeare's to our days.

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Honour to those magic hands
those of a wordy logician,
Glory to his enfeebled scribes,
On the slated symbols of life.

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Speak less sane of the pen
but the hand that drives the ink
For the value of poetry in poem
Is the shallow of depths so deep.

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If you can not pay the poets,
you need not the gods of words
If you cannot value their worth
Then keep loving words with lust.

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Call us what our fathers were called
Place us where your history adore,
For it's plain easy to pen and write,
But that's tedious for poems in scribes.