They stalk the streets, all those who spy them flee;
Beware their wrath, they’re poets on rampage
Who strike with metaphor and simile,
Weapons of speech with which they vent their rage.
Their turf is obscure journals, little books
They read in front of crowds that number eight
In coffee shops and other tiny nooks.
Small wonder that their hearts are filled with hate
You’ll know them by their handles, sparking fears
Designed to clearly mark malicious bents,
The Verse Kings, Iamb Jivers, Coupleteers,
They’re social outcasts, rhyming malcontents.
With pointy poisoned plumes they'll joust and jab:
No sticks and stones, their words will break your bones;
With brutal barbs of irony they’ll stab
And laugh to hear the wretched victims' groans.
The art of poetry's, in truth, arcane,
A form of writing read by very few.
Ignored, a poet’s life is angst and pain,
So, face it, wouldn’t you be cranky too?