I don’t know what I said!
Or why I said what I did!
Maybe, as a poet, I’m mad
To say what should be hid.
These counterfeit passports will get
My passion into every country yet;
And when you let my poetry stay,
Your dry decency will be a bay.
Logic becomes wise beyond its years,
The beautiful laundry is wet with tears,
Hidden love speaks out, without trying.
My words are flying, flying,
Into places flesh would enter
With force, or crass banter.
Do you think I’m wrong
To spread out my song?
Should we just let the simpleton honestly tell
How she is making him feel unwell?
For the simpletons are desperately trying,
And failing. They don’t know it’s because
Only the words of poets please love.