If I could right the steady course
Of words that come to die
If I could right my poetry
Corrected
I might take some pride
Do you think I’d right my poetry
If I was writing poetry
No, but I’d still be glad
Like some fetching dad
Prideworthy
One who might write poetry
Have a daughter who’s not sad
Perhaps too, a son who isn’t even bad
A fiefdom - not a thiefdom
That might be righting poetry
A use of words not slovenly
But better still, teach the girl to cook
Do you think I’d be writing poetry
Hell No! I’d be cooking strawberries
Now that’s what I call poetry
A quiet escape from purgatory
I’ve got to get some strawberries
Then I’ll gather up my words
Take them to the cemetery
Bury them to their depths
Where all words once born equal
Can die a thousand deaths
But I dare not imply
That’s for a poet to decry
I just want to teach girls to cook
Before they learn to fry
Of course I must learn myself
Before she learns to fly
Just some wholesome food
With some apple pie,
Oh hell, yea! some fries
Just put them on the side
Give me a big surprize
Forget all the lies
I just want to watch her cook
That’d be poetry to my eyes
