Wednesday, May 7, 2014

The Idiot Poet

I stand outside the liquor store, 
A poet starved for verse.
I put my words to melody,
And sing seduction to your purse.

I wear a feather in my hair,
A smudge of dirt upon my face;
I may smell of alcohol,
But only just a trace.

Don’t waste your time judging me,
I won't condemn your choice –
I merely suggest a few pennies,
And that you listen to my voice.

I apologize to the employees –
I only know four lines;
Perhaps they could provide inspiration
In the form of several wines?

But they say they aren’t a charity,
Where repetition is free to drive them mad;
So again I apologize for my impoverished words,
But they are all I've ever really had.

For I am the Idiot Poet;
Misunderstood and reviled,
Cast from storefronts,
And poetically exiled.

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