I don’t read my poems
from a scrap of paper;
and I just don’t possess
a cast-iron alibi,
or an old-boot scraper:
I was there at the time,
when this rhyme was writ;
but I took no efforts
and so my rhyme is rubbish.
I don’t read my words
from the back of a packet;
even though I know that
that is what some call style –
‘Style’, I lack it.
I read my poems
from off the top of my head;
and I’d keep that fact
under my hat,
if it wasn’t for the lack
of tact
that I attract,
or have.
I don’t read my poems,
just to get to the end,
sometimes, I stop in the midst of—
