For years I tried to explain
That poetry was my business
But to no other refrain
Than what do you really do
For it is plain
No man Woman or beast
can survive on poetry's wages
You must have at least
A trust fund a patent
A talent for pandering,
Begging or bootlegging.
No, I insisted,
a straight job
is my bane, until
One day i told this to a judge
And she ruled me insane
And forced me to be treated
For my poetry malady
With scream, shock
And poetry therapy
Additionally she enforced
Upon me, her voice full of tension
A monthly punishment of capital
She called
My poetry pension.
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