Poetry Is Like Facing Death By Firing Squad

Poetry is like facing death by firing squad It's like finding your sea legs Whilst dancing with King Canute To a spider's waltz that always excels In its spinning out a velvety, yarn, tune. Even when waves of disappointment Drown them; they're up singing, sailing again. Sucked under—drown like small sailboats Toss every-which-way, you're a tragedienne "Ah, who needs weather anchormen? " Oh, poetry is like facing death by firing squad In deed it's like finding your sea legs Whilst dancing with King Canute It'll lead you astray in every-which-way In a snagging rig, somersaulting, dive. Until you die. Or learn again to breathe. Most poets are like small vessel sailboats Pitch and toss in every-which-way They're skippered but their lifeboats Seem like they're made out of lead or clay. Their pitch and toss on wave is like matchwood Most like I haven't a hope or a prayer Of ever being read or riding those high waves We're too weak in our riggings to forbear That stare a word from a veteran's critique. That is until we die. Or learn again to breathe.