Scott Woodland: A Poet's Poet

A poet's poet's not much use
To people who aren't poets;
That strange, allusion-strewn, abstruse
Work's wasted on such slow wits.

Writing with dry detachment's eye,
He mocks the men of money;
It's frightfully amusing – why
Then is it not more funny?

How fruitlessly his lyrics fret
On grief, despair and loss;
Morose and melancholy, yet
Nobody gives a toss.

His bedroom's barricaded shut
For fear it might admit
He has a fancy bushel but
There's no light under it.

He blames it all on the obtuse,
His lack of luck, his no-hits;
But a poet's poet's not much use
To people who aren't poets.