Poetic Sense

I sit here late at night sometimes and try to pen a verse
I rack my brain for the insane, the object and obverse
And at these times, amidst those rhymes, I come to strange conclusions:
It is not right to never write; but wrong to song delusions.

For if the penman made mistakes or poet skipped some lines
I do not doubt he’d plumbed about some other wondrous mines
But if he skipped, or tripped, or just rambled aimlessly
He’d have not writ so fine a script as I would chance to see.

Yet there are things I do suspect, that certain demand retrospect
And poetry you see, must be, such as requires said respect.