Poets
Boy I sure hate poets,
Don’t never wanna be one.
They got beady little squinty eyes,
So shoot ‘em, if you see one.
Poets, they talk all the time,
Don’t never wanna listen;
They don’t even try to rhyme—
I think their brains is missin’.
Poets stay up late at night
Thinkin’ that they’re thinkin’.
Bless they little pointy heads,
I’d ruther be out drinkin’.
Poets think they know it all,
Talkin’ high and mighty.
If they know so goddamn much
How come they all so flighty?
Me, I’d ruther go to hell,
Or eat some meat that wiggles,
Than sit and work with stupid words
Until they look like squiggles.
6
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