Poets

In the dingy dim of a dirty day,
In the ebbing eve of a weary day,
In the murky morn of a foggy dawn,
We scrawl.

In the blistering ray of late may,
Under steady drops of spring spray,
We scrawl.

In our wet dank leaky place,
By our naked low lit lamp,
Near a stained divan shared one night,
On fumes from a meal we show no trace,
We scrawl.

Not for fame, name, or gold,
Nor for a jewel ear to hear,
Though if such is our fortune,
We would fancy it all the same.
A soft face is not what poet's fear.

We scrawl to tell of hidden love.
We scrawl to show the comedy of man.
If not that, we scrawl to get from
The dingy dim of another dirty day,
To the ebbing eve of a bygone weary dawn.