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Our unacknowledged legislators? Er,
that’s what they like to think they are (or were)
these Lilliputian pedant quibblers,
this tribe of language-mangling scribblers,
who in the present century dispense
with punctuation, rhyme and often sense.
Weep for their Muse, who dare not claim 'I am'
unless she’s ranting in some backstreet Slam,
or as Performance, forced to bare her soul,
her all, in comic failings. Rock’n’Roll
is what the Poet feels he’d like to be;
the world in general hears him differently,
while on the page encrypted utterance
makes every common reader feel a dunce.
Held back by in-fighting, turf wars and booze
poets make nothing happen; that’s good news.