It is All For Little That We Poets Write
A poet writes his words that will
Be read by someone who does not care
And thinks it odd these rhyming lines
That his flowing pen laid there
But he cares not and keeps on writing
As surely as the grass will grow
And as sure as we pull up the grass as a weed
So indifference to our poems our readers will show…
It is all for little that we poets write
But our craft we enjoy
And so by day and by night
Ourselves with pen employ
Knowing that after out time
Though nobody may care
We on a page our words have left
To be read by others there…