I think I’ll never understand
Why poets po with words so grand
That no one else will ever know
Just what it was the poet poed.
What is this urge to render dark
Lines that might ignite a spark
If only poet would rephrase
Those purple flowery bouquets
And spare the reader of the stilt
That causes his desire to wilt
And never even want to know
Just what it was the poet poed?
I'd like to add that GOOD Poetry is to be prized like a rare jewel. It moves the spirit. It soothes. It jolts. It socks you in the stomach. It rubs your tummy. It is, in fact, utterly amazing.