Nope, not there yet.
P.B. Shelley once said that poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world. That's all well and good, but what about our poor legislators? Who cares for them? I say: Legislators are the unacknowledged poets of this world! Eh? Eh? How do you like that?
Is dandy too.
No, still not there.
I was at a party the other day, and who should come up to me but a brain surgeon who happens to be in the papers at the moment? He said to me then, "So, you're a writer, eh? Well, I think I've got a book in me - what do you think about that?" But I had a reply ready. "So," I said then cheerfully, ""You're a brain surgeon, eh? Well, I think I've got a brain in me!" That showed him!
Later I had a rocket scientist come up to me and say the same thing. "They tell me you're a writer. Well, pal, I've got a book in me!" But that didn't worry me! I immediately snapped back, "Well, it just so happens I don't think you're that clever. I think tomorrow I'll have a go at your job. After all, it's not rocke... oh."
I really must stop going to parties, it depresses me so.
But the bar man lacked
No, no good.
People ask me, why do I write poetry? I tell them, it's for the children! It's for the looks of joy smeared over their grubby little faces when they discover poetry for the first time! Or at least a hint of a smile. Something, anyway! Although, to be honest, chocolate does a better job at getting smiles on their faces than poetry. Or possibly chocolate-coloured prozac. I know this from painful experience and a process of trial and error with my own children.
If you would like to contact your local parents and teachers committee, I am available to speak at schools.
There are, of course, those who would claim that poetry is worthless. I mock them! I spurn them, as the lowly inhabitants of earth are spurned by some God or minor deity! The poet is a figure of vaulting, Promethean passions, of Titanic ambition,
Who will attainHe is omniscient - omnipotent - in the sway he holds over human souls, a veritable Ubermensch among supermen! I wrote a poem which neatly illustrates this:
The very brightest heavens of invention!
The cow is of the bovine ilk (I think)I'm still working on it - but take THAT, sceptics!
One end is moo, the other, some
form of lactose drink.