The poet sings – or so she used to
And there are those who’ve returned to guitar
Or drums to sing the things that are
While others never finished piano lessons.
Otherwise poets are silent as Quakers
And all that song stuff is for fakers
Unless, as I do, whispering and claw voiced
They sample the goods to have a taste
- roll their tongue over the cut and paste
My muse is mainly a tick in the mind
Which throws out of hem my rants and pleas
- fr’instance, this here poem is one of these.
- Karen Chamisso
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