These poets who write of love as if they have it,
And know, knowing it truer than you and me,
These are the worst of their trade in form,
Though the content sometime rears its head,
Those other poets presume to speak of the dead,
Perhaps these know a thing or two of living,
(Who can know beyond?) but how they keep giving
pause with questionable thought and silly swooning.
And the last sort of poet must muse, they must,
Muse on living and how the fuck we do it,
They are surely the least qualified of all but do,
And isn't that one thing more than you?