Odd Poet

Sang yodels a romantic bard On his love’s round buttocks Few years afterwards Rued at those skin-sacks “Love, nature and beauty! Is this all real poetry? All these evanescences And earthly fetish” Wondered an odd poet Wavering in the spoils Of struggling third world Weighing his penchants All his senses aching Soaked in lamentation Of his own kith and kin The poor and downtrodden From his trembling hand Slipped his mighty pen From esoteric heights Down to the earth and said “This soil is my text, my quest As well, my blank note sheet Where all my letter-seeds I wish to sow and harvest”