THE POET:

I´ve Long tired of the sweating hands of groping, grasping men,

Of cheap thrills, one-night-stands, their ignorance of word & pen,

Of sweet-nothings adrift on winds & spoken words unheard,

Butchers of men, knowing only of flesh & nothing of the word.

Give me not the blusterings & slobberings of dithering dolts,

From whose unwanted fumblings, I must undoubtedly bolt,

Give me the poet who speaks through eloquent, erudite pen,

Give me the poetic warblings & words of romantic men.

Give me not the horn-handed grasping, of sensitive reticent breasts,

Those greedy robbing hands, that I feel obliged to always arrest,

Give me men, from  times of the existence of the true gentlemen,

And I´ll show you a lady, from the times, when a lady knew when.

Open me the pages of old books & poetry, & not of open thighs,

Word me with sonnets & I shall reward you with passionate sighs,

Manners made man, in those days when manners were good,

Show me the poet, the man, who stands where morals are good.

Wine me & dine me, but preferably rhyme, scribe & line me,

With verses of old wisdom & of ancient Bards entwine me,

With poetry, you´ll always woo, lure & entice me dear,

And with your secret wooing words I shall forever hold you near.